Heartstrings
by Symbiotific
Summary: AU. Arthur Kirkland's too busy to start a relationship. Google's solution: Heartstrings, the new online dating service for the Too Busy. He just didn't think the solution would be so literal.
1. Too Busy

**Title:** Heartstrings  
><strong>Rating: <strong>T for now(?)  
><strong>Genre:<strong> Slice-of-life, AU  
><strong>CharactersPairings:** Alfred, Arthur, ensemble cast | Eventual Alfred/Arthur, with other side pairings  
><strong>Summary:<strong> AU. Arthur Kirkland's too busy to start a relationship. Google's solution: Heartstrings, the new online dating service for the Too Busy. He just didn't think the solution would be so literal.  
><strong>Notes:<strong> Multi-chaptered collab fic! Updates may be a little slow, but they'll definitely come. Comments and any feedback are always welcome!

**Too Busy**

**HEARTSTRINGS**

Too busy to chat up people at the pubs after work? Too tired to go through the whole is-she-or-isn't-she mating ritual before asking her out on a date? Too annoyed with guys who seemed interested but were just leading you on?

We're proud to provide a solution, tailored to working, busy individuals just like **you**.

Presenting to you, **Heartstrings**! We're an online dating site, catered to too-busy professionals just like you. Join our network and find individuals who work in your area! Our system's designed to help you find other amazing singles in the area for a quick lunch or coffee. Who knows, maybe you might find someone who tugs at _your_ heartstrings. What comes after that? It's all up to _you_.

* * *

><p>Alfred laughed, pushing the cutting of their first ever print advert to the side. Thank god Francis had gotten a little more subtle with his marketing schemes over the years, he thought, flipping through some other old cuttings he had accumulated over the years. It was amazing, Alfred mused, how much good PR you could get in three years with a publicity manager. He supposed Matthew had made the right choice after all, hiring Francis, even though Alfred personally had his doubts about the seemingly perverted (the image had solidified into <em>pure diamond<em> over the years) Frenchman.

He was in, what Matthew called, one of his Moods again. The Moods ranged from nostalgic to nitpicky, whiny to stoned, all with the constant element of _utter boredom_. Alfred F. Jones had thought starting up a company would be fun, or at very least busy. He never expected the days of boredom which would ensue when updates had just been made, feedback or complaints were running low, and every single other available job had been delegated to someone else. As the self-proclaimed creative and technical genius behind Heartstrings, he'd assumed that there would be... _More_ to his job. More than sitting around scrolling through junk email, searching the web for new improvements to be made on the system, checking out the competition.

Picking up an old picture of him and Matthew, the first press-release of the two young graduates which had started up an "online dating revolution which took the business district by storm" (quote and unquote, Alfred had his first good review memorized by heart), he pushed his office door open. Crossing the narrow hall, he pushed at an identical door, without knocking, to reveal a busy Matthew, typing at his computer.

"Yes Al?" He asked, not looking up. Alfred plopped himself down onto the soft armchair in the corner, waving the cutting around.

"_Mattieeeeeee_.," He whined, kicking his legs about, where they dangled off one arm of the chair. "I was just looking at our archives and I found _this_. I can't believe it's been three years, I mean, _god_, where has all the time gone? And we've done _so much_, and I just wanted to tell you that I _really_ love you for-"

The typing stopped.

"Okay," Matthew sighed, pulling his glasses off and rubbing at his temples. "Fine, fine, you win. I'll give you another job if you would just _stop coming in here every half hour_!"

Alfred paused, hand in mid-wave, before letting the cutting flutter to the ground. Grinning, he crossed his arms over his chest.

"Bring it on."

* * *

><p>Half an hour later, Alfred was back at his desk, a small stack of vouchers and a list of names in hand. He frowned thoughtfully, scanning the list.<p>

Matthew's instructions had been explicit, to say the least.

_"If you want to do something, you have to stick to protocol," he demanded, frowning at his brother. Alfred, for a few moments, wondered if they really were co-owners of the company, being ordered around like this. Still, something to do was better than nothing at all._

_"Yes sir," he'd grinned, still swinging his legs on the chair's arm, giving his brother a little salute. _

Protocol apparently meant strictly professional and _very_ formal surveys. Heartstrings Corporations was a small company, where departments usually consisted of two people, and one of those two were in another department at the same time. It made for a cosy working environment, which Alfred really liked. There wasn't really any of that boss-subordinate business, and he got to know everyone personally. It usually wasn't too much of a problem, at least for Alfred.

But apparently, there wasn't anyone allocated to gathering feedback on Heartstrings, so _that_ was a new bullet point on the paperwork which detailed Alfred's job scope. They usually let the comments and responses (and complaints) trickle in, but with the sudden increase in Alfred's Moods, Matthew declared that there was a sudden, new, urgent need to gather more information, and no one to do it but Alfred.

Which is how Alfred found himself saddled with a list of names and telephone numbers, and a stack of vouchers for "giving us some of their precious time", as Francis has put it, when Alfred had been sent to retrieve them.

It was pretty impressive how many surveys Alfred managed to complete. For one, as he had come to realise, most of his customers were busy people (or at least, self-proclaimedly so), and the remainder seemed to be suffering from vague delusions that they were _not_, in anyway, using a dating service at all. Most of the calls were turned down; some at least had the courtesy to tell him that they were 'busy at the moment', but not enough courtesy to wait for him to go 'would it be alright if I called you again later?'

After an hour or so he couldn't be bothered to recite "Hello, good afternoon, is this Mister-Miss-Whoever-It-Is? My name is Alfred F. Jones and I am calling on the behalf of Heartstrings, the dating service you are using. We are currently having a customer survey and it would be great if you could spare us a minute of your time-" (He barely even _got_ to recite anything else after that, to his own almost sadistic dismay) and simply went, "Hey there it's Alfred, you know, the boss of Heartstrings? Yea, that dating service you're using. Just wanted to ask you a few questions about it? D'you mind?" whilst sneaking glances at his office door hoping that Matthew wouldn't walk in whilst he Broke Protocol.

Surprisingly it was the latter that got him a few more responses. Five, to be precise, but hey, five was better than nothing right?

... Right.

By the end of the day, Alfred's Mood had returned, coupled with the frustration and a sudden surge of empathy for all those phone surveyors that he had rejected in his 25 years.

And that was also when Alfred finally threw down the phone, and like any other young innovator-entrepreneur who started his own business out of scratch, started to question the system.

It wasn't _his_ fault that this wasn't working, phone surveys were _stupid_. They were boring, they scared most of the privacy-conscious generation of the digital age, and most of the time even those who grudgingly agreed to take the survey after he _grovelled _at them endlessly gave half-hearted answers that told him more about their unwillingness to take the survey than their opinion on the service.

Alfred drummed his fingers on the table, glaring rather pointedly at the phone as his brain raged on about the situation. A better method of information collecting was required, he decided, before he drove himself crazy and before _boredom_ started to look more appealing than Something To Do.

His glare drifted from his office phone to his computer screen - on the screen was the Heartstrings website, his default homepage on Google Chrome, because he was _such_ a proud father - and felt something in his brain click.

He just needed to think out of the box. How else better to _survey_ a dating service than to actually _use_ it for the survey?

Alfred logged into his account and glanced down the list of names Matthew had given him. Sure enough, the username of each person was listed as well. A few clicks and he had located a Miss Katyusha Braginski, asked her out to dinner, and received an answer within a minute.

This was _so _much more like it.

* * *

><p>"So, hi," Alfred grinned, sliding into the empty seat, after pulling out the chair for Katyusha, who sat opposite him.<p>

"Hello," she smiled shyly, pushing a lock of short blond hair behind her ear. Tentatively, she stretched her hand forward, offering a handshake. "I-I'm Katyusha Braginski, it's really nice to meet you. S-Sorry if I come off as a bit nervous," she half-smiled, biting her lip, "I've only done this once before, you see and my brother is always-"

Alfred laughed, and accepted the handshake, wanting to put her at ease.

"It's no problem! And there's totally no need to be so formal, I mean we're here on a da-" Alfred let out a nervous chuckle. "Well. That's the thing actually. I didn't mean to mislead you or whatever but, eh, I'm actually here on business."

Katyusha frowned, eyebrows furrowing slightly.

"I mean uh." _Shit maybe I should have thought this out before I did this..._

He scratched the back of his head, and gave a guilty smile. "Sorry. Let's start over." Alfred stuck out his hand this time, grinning what he hoped was a winning smile.

"Hi, I'm Alfred F. Jones and I'm one of the founders of Heartstrings. Awesome to meet you!" He watched as the girl opposite him started to smile, eyes crinkled in mild confusion. "Hi," she smiled again, albeit warily this time. "It's... A pleasure to meet you too, but Mr Jones-"

"Alfred!"

"R-Right, Alfred. But what do you need with me? I-I mean, I've only used your service twice."

"Right, yeah. But you see, I'm here to collect information from clients, and uh, frankly, I've gotten sick of getting put down over the phone," he laughed, "So I thought I'd try a new approach. And I'll pay for lunch and everything, and after we get my questions out of the way, we can, you know, maybe get to know each other a little. What do you think?"

To be honest, behind his grin, Alfred was a little more than nervous. What if she made a complaint about his how he was being unprofessional? (Not that the complaint could go any further than him, but maybe Matt would catch wind of it, and _god_, he did _not_ want another 5 hour rant, courtesy of his own twin brother) He didn't properly think this out in the first place, so he just continued to grin and hoped for the best.

After a pause, Katyusha laughed mirthfully, nodding. _Thank god_, Alfred thought to himself, flooded with relief. He waved the waiter over.

"So what will you have?" He grinned, gratefully.

* * *

><p>The second girl didn't go so well, admittedly. A little flushed and indignant from the realization that she was <em>not<em>, apparently, here on a date with him, she left, tugging at her ponytails irritably, muttering about "leading people on".

Sighing, Alfred took out his iPhone, and tapped the Heartstrings application icon, searching for his next "target", so to speak.

_Pity, she was actually kinda cute, with those red ribbons on her ponytails_, he thought absently, tapping on the date request button for one Feliciano Vargas.

* * *

><p>That one went markedly better, Alfred thought. Perhaps <em>not<em> telling them that he worked for Heartstrings, or that he was doing a survey was better, he reflected, hurriedly pulling on his coat after their meeting. It had all gone pretty smoothly, and Al had found Feliciano to be extremely pleasant and sweet. Not quite his type, but at least it made his job easy. The man didn't ask why Alfred was so seemingly obsessed with feedback on the system, and after that, they had chatted amiably about food and what which store in London sold the best gelato.

Till Feliciano's twin brother (Alfred could only assume so, with the two of them looking so extraordinarily similar) came in, demanding to know why the _fuck is my phone reminding me that I have a date on Saturday by some stupid dating service and who are you and what are you doing here with my brother?_

Alfred found it easier to smile, shake Feliciano's hand and escape before anything else could be said or explained. He understood the messiness of... brotherly spats.

_Three down, one to go_, Alfred smiled, toying with the app once again.

_Arthur Kirkland eh? _


	2. Not Too Undesirable

**(Not) Too Undesirable**

Arthur Kirkland threw a hasty glance at this watch and sipped from the cup of water in front of him. It was ten minutes into his lunch break and the person who had asked him out was still not here. He had an hour and a half for his lunch-break, not including the time required to walk back to his office, and at the moment he was rather worried that if he did not order anytime soon, he would be late going back to work.

And Arthur Kirkland was _never_ late (But everyone else was, almost always, and it didn't bode to well for his hypothetical relationship with this girl if she was always going to be _tardy_).

In fact, his brain was already considering the possibility of ordering first, just in case the food took too long to be prepared. It wasn't polite, obviously, and not acceptable for a gentleman like him, but a date that asked him out and kept him waiting was probably not worthy of such courtesy.

The rest of the restaurant was full of chatter, the waitresses were hovering around him, throwing sideway glances that spoke of their discomfort that a customer was not ordering _immediately_ during a busy lunch hour like this. (And would he complain that it was _their_ fault that his food was not on time?)

He took another sip of water.

Perhaps... Perhaps this _had been_ a bad idea in the first place. He never thought much about dating after all, and to tell the truth never really cared about whether or not he had a significant other who would invade personal space and poke their nose into his business and produce illogical, emotional statements which he would apparently be expected to entertain due to the status of their relationship.

In fact, at several points in the past two weeks of being a user of Heartstrings, Arthur had taken the liberty of questioning himself regarding the situation he was currently in.

Maybe it _was_ a bad idea. Maybe he just wasn't made out for dating. Maybe he didn't need to. Maybe the right person who would understand him and all the reasons why he found the idea of being in a relationship appalling wasn't going to come to him through a dating service like this. The right time would come, and then perhaps... And even if it didn't, well, what would be the loss?

And to tell the truth, at each of those several points in the past two weeks, Arthur had _almost_ managed to convince himself. But he didn't, and every time he reminded himself _why_ he couldn't afford to _not_ give this a shot, he felt a migraine at the back of his head, sneakily waiting to happen.

* * *

><p>It had been a Friday night, and he was having one of the worst migraines in his short life spanning 27 years. London was as usual grey, gloomy, with an incessant drizzle that most of the passers-by ignored with a conviction, stumbling on their way back home to a comforting cup of tea, or to several comforting cups of alcoholic beverages at a pub.<p>

Arthur, to his own disdain, had been sitting at a table of four in a Chinese restaurant, glaring at said passers-by with a vengeance and trying very hard to will the three other people with him to disappear. Possibly to Scotland, where they could bother his other brother instead. (Or Wales, or Northern Ireland - he really couldn't be bothered which one of his brothers they chose to bother, so long as it wasn't him.)

"Arthur, could you be a dear and pass the soya sauce?~" Aunt Rose chirped, smiling innocently at Arthur. He frowned, cautiously reaching over with his right hand to bring the small bottle over to his aunt. Nothing good ever came out of Aunt Rose smiling innocently.

"Here, Aunt Rose-" He started, cut off by his aunt who, in a surprising show of speed and reflexes, grabbed his right hand while his Aunt Violet on his left, seized his other.

"W-WHAT ON EARTH ARE-"

"Shh, quiet Arthur," Rose frowned, over her glasses, examining his hand. Violet, clasping at his left elbow, gave it a cursory pat and did the same. Arthur looked over at his Aunt Daisy, shooting her a bewildered look. Daisy simply gave him a half shrug before peering of his arm to look at his hands as well.

"HAH!" Rose grinned, triumphantly shoving Arthur's right hand into Daisy's face. Aunt Violet, Arthur noted, seemed similarly pleased, but was a bit gentler, and simply let his left hand drop back down onto the table. "Violet and I were correct!"

Daisy frowned, examining Arthur's hand as well, until he snatched it back and folded both of them across his chest. "What the bloody hell are you three doing with my hand? You can't just-"

He was silenced by a smack to his head by Aunt Daisy. "Your aunts are having a discussion, Arthur, be quiet. And I'm _very_ disappointed that you still have yet to get engaged or anything of the sort. Honestly Arthur, I placed my faith," she paused, reaching into her ancient leather clutch, and pulled out a two tenners, handing one each to Violet and Rose. "And my _money_ on you. To have a ring of some sort on your hand by now."

Arthur felt like letting his head drop to the table. Perhaps the pain would overcome the sad realization that his _aunts_ were _placing bets on his love life_.

"_Aunt Daisy_, how could you even- It is completely inappropriate to- To-"

"Now you listen here Arthur, at least _I_ bet that you would have settled down. Your Aunts Violet and Rose had _their_ money on you not doing so for the next two years or so, which by then, honestly, would be _far_ too late." She frowned at him, giving his cheek a pat. "You're not getting any younger you know," Daisy added, before returning to her steamed dumplings.

Arthur was a speechless, for a moment.

"AUNT ROSE!"

And yet it was Violet who rubbed Arthur's left arm soothingly. She had always been the more temperate of the three (Aunt Rose was simply _cunning_, while Aunt Daisy incredibly blunt), and had always been a little sweeter to Arthur than the rest of his brothers.

"Arthur," She began, dropping another fried wonton onto his plate. "Your Aunt Daisy is right. You're not getting much younger, and don't you want to have a family, dearest? Maybe you should really think about settling down with a nice girl, getting a little house and maybe a cat?"

"And children," Daisy cut in, over a mouthfull of bamboo shoots. "You _will_ have children," she announced.

"And children," agreed Aunt Violet, not missing a beat and patting Arthur's hand more. "Doesn't that sound lovely, sweetums? Hmm?"

Arthur was a little close to exasperation at this point. There was honestly no reasoning with his three aunts, _ever_. They'd been the closest relatives to him and his brothers since their birth, and even now, when they were spread all over the UK, their aunts had made a sport of travelling around to bother them all in turn. Occasionally they would stay at their house up in Northen England, where he had grown up, but for the better parts of the year, they seemed to like moving about, visiting their "favourite little nephews", who really weren't all that little anymore.

"Also," Aunt Rose added, "Violet decided to bet _against_ you after the outcome of our last little bet." Beside her, Aunt Daisy frowned at him again. "You lost, of course, but I'd thought better of you," she mused, waving her chopsticks around, punctuating the thought with a jab at another meat bun. "Which turned out to be sadly disappointing."

Arthur, giving up on the idea of keeping any amount of dignity when in the company of his family, decided to ask the question he was dreading. "What was the last bet on?"

Violet retracted her hands, notably not looking at him, face slightly flushed with embarrassment. "W-Well dear. It was uh, a little test of who... Whowasthemostattractive."

Arthur paused, his dumpling half-way to his mouth.

_"What?"_

"You see Arthur," Aunt Rose spoke, while contemplating another fried shrimp roll, "We brought around your pictures, along with your brothers, of course, to our friends, and we asked them who was the most attractive."

"And you lost," concluded Aunt Daisy, sipping delicately at her tea.

"... What?"

Daisy gave that same half shrug, putting her teacup down. "You lost. Scott came up top, _of course_," she smirked over at Violet at the last remark, who frowned, and turned to Arthur.

"It's not that you're undesirable, dearie, it's just that-"

"But he is!" Rose cut in, jabbing her chopsticks at Arthur's general direction. "Just look at him!" The three sets of eyes focused on him, mouths set in various degrees of scrutiny and displeasure.

"Alright, t-that's quite enough," Arthur mumbled, waving his hands about his face, trying to ward off their stares. As if he didn't have enough issues with his own eyebrows already, he didn't need three middle-aged women frowning in displeasure at them as well. "And Aunts, I understand that you all worry about me, but there really is nothing to-"

"EXCUSE ME!" Aunt Daisy cut in, as Aunt Daisy was often prone to doing, signalling to the waitress, who came over promptly.

"Yes madam?"

"Would you marry this man?" Daisy asked, quite matter-of-factly, gesturing towards Arthur, who was choking on his bamboo shoots.

"... Pardon me?"

"You, miss. Would you marry this man?" Daisy repeated, frowning, as if she thought the girl was a little slow in the head.

"What she means is," Violet hurriedly cut in, leaving Arthur to gratefully down some water at her intervention-

"Is that do you think that our nephew here is desirable? Attractive? Would you date him?"

- Only to leave Arthur choking on _that_ as well.

The waitress, laughing awkwardly, came over to his side, and handed him a napkin. "Not while he's choking, for sure," she joked, patting his back a little, giving him a look of sympathy.

Arthur, this time, _did_ let his head smack on the table ("Oh dear, is he suffering from mental issues as well? Well. _That_ won't help him with the ladies.") with a satisfying thump.

He needed to get a girlfriend. Or new relatives.

Sadly, he had no idea which one was more likely.

It wasn't as if Arthur had never tried. At a few points in his life - that vaguely confusing phase people called adolescence, and the second year of university when things had settled down and it seemed like the _thing_ to do - he had attempted to get into a relationship.

Attempted being the operative word there, because it didn't really work out. As much as Arthur had always been a capable young man, excelling in most things he wanted to put effort in (even the occasional sport like football) and breezing through academics without much difficulty, he seemed to have problems with Expressing Feelings, Mind Reading, and Being Cuddly.

He didn't see or understand why two people needed to be with each other for the whole day, stuck together like siamese twins. Neither did he see the point in whispering cheesy Hollywood movie lines to each other. He wanted his personal space, and in return gave his girlfriend an equal dose of it. It wasn't as if he was _incapable_ of love - or at least, Arthur _hoped_ back then that he wasn't - but rather that he seemed to have problems accommodating and understanding that most people in the world were not happy to settle on that unheard of and rarely demonstrated "I love you".

Most of his relationships averaged at a month, before the girl ran away crying after she proclaimed that he was inhuman, and a robot, and such an insensitive bastard, and _did he even really love her_? And each time Arthur would stand there, listen, nod, and accept the verdict. If it didn't work for her then so be it. Perhaps it just wasn't meant to be.

At some point, possibly after he left school and found himself a job in a publishing company and began working up the ranks, Arthur came to realise that a human being didn't _really_ need to be in a relationship to be healthy, accomplished, and satisfied with life.

Arthur Kirkland simply stopped trying. And hell, life wasn't all so bad either.

He was now the branch manager and head editor of Albion Publishing, enjoying a stable income, living in a comfortable home on the outskirts of Central London, respected (at a distance) by his subordinates and was most certainly not _undesirable_. He had been busy, caught up with his _other_ priorities in life (that were _so_ much more important) and simply did not bother to try to initiate a relationship.

But as Arthur waved his aunts goodbye (all of them insisting on giving him a hug, complete with hearty pats on the back, encouraging squeezes and affectionate condolences whispered into his ear) and headed his way home picking up the pieces of his tattered and broken pride, he decided that perhaps it was a good time to try. After all, it wasn't as if he _couldn't_ get a decent girlfriend.

Right?

Right.

Each step away from the restaurant became a step towards a determined, burning conviction that he _would_ get a girlfriend - and not just any random girl off the street, a capable, intelligent, independent woman that he could respect and appreciate, and vice versa.

By the time he reached his apartment, the conviction had cooled to a calm, steely resolution, in which he began to plan out the various possible ways of finding himself a girlfriend.

There were a few options to him, he realized. He could chat up someone in his company, try those speed dating events, or perhaps try a club or bar or some other social event or function. There always seemed to be an excess of the last, so why not make good use of it? He weighed his options. Someone in the company might be more terrified than pleased if he actually attempted to initiate a conversation with them, and relationships between colleagues were always messy (or so he heard). Speed dating events were... awkward, to say the least, especially when Arthur didn't enjoy being amongst a crowd and talking to strangers after a hectic ice breaker. The same would apply to the club-bar-social-event option. Too many people, too many options, too many social obligations which needed to be efficiently handled.

He found himself mulling over a cup of tea, staring out of the window to his study (his reflection was a half-transparent, glaring thing, which he knew, had a habit of chasing friendly company away). He was _busy_. He didn't have time for something as silly and trivial as dating. And he was beginning to suspect that his attempt to prove something to his three aunts was rather silly and trivial too.

Well, perhaps there was a solution. Some... _form_ of dating that would somehow fit into his schedule, take away the awkwardness of a social situation, and not make people think that he was going to fire them.

Was there such a thing?

Arthur paused for a moment, then turned to his computer.

Maybe there was.

* * *

><p>It was Google that introduced him to Heartstrings. The concept of the online dating service had been rather attractive; slotting in the time to date someone into a short lunch break between office hours was definitely time-efficient and fit nicely into his schedule.<p>

He had hastily created a profile just to try it out, filling in only the required fields, and the next day he had received an invitation to lunch. It _was_ hassle free, and even though his date never contacted him again it didn't bother him - he didn't think much of her either.

The next few dates, unfortunately, were of no improvement. A few seemed truly impressed by his career achievements, but he lost them the moment they talked about things other than jobs. Then there was that particularly disturbing girl who kept giggling and fluttering her eyelashes at him, running her manicured fingers up and down his arm... Arthur politely excused himself after lunch and rejected her next invite.

It still wasn't working out, but in the past two weeks he had dated more than he ever had in the past twenty seven years of his life.

It had to be an improvement - at least the odds were increasing now weren't they?

Now, so long as this girl didn't come _too_ late today...

"Hey! Arthur Kirkland right? Sorry I'm late!"

Arthur looked at his watch on reflex. Twenty minutes late. This could be a problem. He decided that he would have to order a sandwich today instead of having anything hot.

His date pulled out the chair opposite him and plopped down. And that was when Arthur looked up and something suddenly clicked-

His date was _male_.


	3. Too British

**Too British**

For the next minute or so Arthur found himself unable to do anything else other than _stare_. (If it were of any comfort to his dignity, at least his mouth wasn't hanging wide open.) Why was his date a male? It was probably his fault, since he did not bother to check the full profile of the person who had asked him out - but surely most normal people would _not_ ask someone of the same gender out-

... Unless of course... Arthur's fingers twitched slightly on top of the table. Oh how tempting it was for him to reach right into his pocket and produce his Blackberry and double check his own profile. Surely he had not accidentally put in anything about being interested in people of his gender? He didn't _remember_ doing anything so silly, but just what if in his haste of filling in his profile-

"So, did you wait long?" The question snapped him out of his temporary inner panic. _Did he wait long? _Arthur wrung together the threads of his shaky composure and straightened his back unconsciously,

"Oh, no, of course not," Arthur bit out. "I just came on time and waited around twenty minutes sitting here for you to arrive. That's not too long is it?"

The young man opposite him blinked twice, then his face cracked into a lopsided grin, "That's good then!"

Arthur tried not to click his tongue. Judging from his accent and his inability to read sarcasm, his date was most probably American. God, _American_. The word felt like half a cuss on his tongue, and there was just something about the man in front of him which seemed to effortlessly rub him the wrong way.

_Or maybe I'm just being a tad too judgmental. Just because he was late doesn't mean that-_

"Man," commented the American, flipping through the menu, a slight frown on his face. "I had no idea that all this place sold was..." A few more flips, and he clicked his tongue disdainfully. "Stogey old British food."

_-Sod that, he is an uncultured American git. A late, uncultured, American git.  
><em>  
>"I've been here for a few years now but," he grinned, not at all remorseful, and waved the waitress over. "Between you and me, I never really got British food, y'know what I mean? I still think most of it's pretty awful aha!"<p>

Arthur could feel a vein bulge out in his neck. Personal differences aside, this was now a matter of _cultural pride_, dammit.

"Hello there," the man grinned, up at the waitress, who (much to Arthur's chagrin - _don't encourage the git_) blushed happily at his attention. "Could I get a coffee please? And my friend here," He gestured at Arthur, who was gripping his menu a little tighter than necessary. "He'd like-"

"A club sandwich." Arthur frowned, glaring at the American, as if daring him to comment, before smacking his menu down, loudly.

The man, thankfully, remained silent, and instead gathered up the menus and returned them to the waitress with a winning smile.

"So! Introductions, yeah?" He stuck his hand out for a handshake. "Alfred F. Jones, delighted to make your acquaintance!" Alfred smiled, jokingly putting on a (horrible sounding, Arthur noted with disdain) fake British accent.

"Arthur Kirkland." He reached across the table to shake Alfred's hand in a firm business-like manner, only to have Alfred swing his hand up and down cheerfully, then let go in midswing. Arthur withdrew his hand, trying very hard to keep his face a facade of cool indifference.

Alfred seemed to pay no heed for the tension in the air, picking up his glass of water and downing it in a few gulps. "How long have you been using Heartstrings by the way?"

A strange start to a conversation, Arthur decided, especially for one on a date. Still, it was definitely an easier question to answer to compared to other social niceties ("Good weather today isn't it?") and some other more prying questions ("You a virgin?"). "Two weeks or so."

"Ah. New to the system then!" Alfred seemed genuinely happy at that, for what reason Arthur could not comprehend. "How're you finding the dates so far then? Any happy successes?"

Arthur's brows furrowed slightly. "If there were happy successes why would I be going out on more dates?"

A pause. Alfred was blinking surprised blue eyes at him as if he just said one of the strangest things in the world.

"Uh, I meant that if I had found a significant other through the service it wouldn't be very fair to be accepting other dates would it?" Arthur tried, slower this time, thinking perhaps Alfred was just a _little_ bit slow. One could only hope.

"Oh." Alfred nodded, but the pause that followed made Arthur feel a little uneasy. It almost looked like Alfred was making mental notes (and judgements) of Arthur's character. "In other words... not working yet? Any good follow-ups then?"

_Follow-ups...?_ "If you mean that if I dated someone for more than once, then" Arthur gave a slightly awkward cough. "No..."

"How many times _have _you dated then?"

Arthur raised an eyebrow. This seemed to be a rather pressing issue for Alfred. "Around... six people or so."

"Six! And no follow-ups? Whoa. _Dude_, you're pretty bad at this aren't you?"

Arthur flinched internally at the remark.

"I'll have you know that I'm plenty accomplished in other areas," he sniffed, mildly irate at how much the jab had hurt.

Alfred's interest seemed to be piqued at this, strangely enough. He put his coffee cup down, and leaned over the booth seat slightly, eyes curious. "Oh? What do you do then? For a job, I mean," he asked.

Arthur could feel the corner of his lips upturn slightly, at the mention of his career. He couldn't help it, honest. It wasn't exactly arrogance or anything nearly as clear cut and cleanly defined, it was just that he had a great deal of pride in knowing that he had a good, fantastic job, and that he did it well.

"I'm in publishing," Arthur smiled, for the first time during the meeting. "To be exact, I'm the London Branch Manager and Chief Editor for Albion Publishing."

"OH! Albion Publishing! Hey, I've actually heard of you guys!" Arthur prepared himself to preen, until-

"Don't you guys do comics too?"

Arthur frowned. _Comics?_ The company had just finished publishing the final book of the wildly popular, internationally-bestselling fantasy series, and obtained several publishing rights to the translated copies of several large names in books about management and self-help! They weren't just _any_ old publishing company that produced _comics._

Nevertheless Arthur swallowed his urge to scoff, "... Amongst other things, yes."

"Aw man, that's so cool! I'm a huge fan of that Hetalia series that you guys have published! One of my friends - he's Japanese, see - he already has the fourth book in his possession and I just can't wait to get my hands on a copy!" Alfred was giving him a look which bore a striking resemblance to an excited puppy, Arthur thought. "When are you guys getting that out?"

"... The team's in the process of vetting the translation at the moment, but I suppose it should be ready for publication anytime within next month."

"Really! Awesome! Dude, I can't wait!" Alfred grinned, "Save a copy for me? If you guys are still doing the limited editions..."

Arthur frowned slightly, "I can't really do that-" He was interrupted by a bubble of rather amused laughter.

"You need to chill, man. I was kidding! I'll queue at the bookstores like every other loyal fan of the series when it's released!" Alfred waved a hand at him, rather good-naturedly adding, "The trick to getting popular with the ladies is to not be so stiff and play along ya know?"

Arthur made a face. He really didn't need an American git out of all people telling him how to get a girlfriend.

The waitress arrived shortly with their order of food and drinks. Arthur helped himself to his club sandwich, throwing a glance at his watch to check how much time he had left.

"Though, hey," Alfred leant forward rather earnestly over his cup of coffee, "Could I just ask something though? Since you're in the industry and all that?"

Arthur looked up from his sandwich. "Mm?"

"Any plans to bring in Light Novels? That Japanese friend of mine, he keeps telling me about how well-written these stories he's reading are, and how I really should read them... but they're all in Japanese you know..." Alfred pulled a face, "And it's not like I don't want to _learn_ the language, it's just... there's so many... funny characters. I'd take ten years before I can actually read those books!"

Arthur blinked a few times, then started a little cautiously, "... We were considering bringing those in. After all it is a rather untouched market outside Japan."

Alfred's face lit up immediately. "Really!"

"But." He continued, stressing slightly on the word - Alfred's face fell back to the sad-kicked-puppy look at that (it was strangely amusing to see someone whose facial expressions changed so drastically within a few split seconds)- "... It's not an easy business. The thing about Light Novels is that they often play with the structure of a novel, and you know how translation between languages like English and Japanese go..." He trailed off, then stopped himself forcefully, his eyes warily darting over to watch Alfred's face. The last time he went on a tangent like that, he lost his date, and she forcefully changed the conversation topic to the latest Hollywood movie in the cinemas (which subsequently lost _him_).

"Oh oh! I know right?" Alfred was so excited he nearly spilled some of his coffee as he set his cup down just so he could gesture to make his points. "Kiku showed me this book he had before- oh, that's the Japanese friend I was talking about - and there was this entire page that was apparently just a chunk of laughter, but according to him he said that the point was to-"

Arthur raised an eyebrow. Watching Alfred gesture animatedly, Arthur was surprised to say the least.

_The topic didn't get rejected? That's new._

* * *

><p>"- So how the bloody hell can you argue that burgers are better than fish and chips?"<p>

"Well it's not rocket science," pouted Alfred. "I mean, _logically_, burgers have more ingredients in them yeah? And they've been tested and tried to prove that they all taste awesome together! So you have variety _and_ awesome taste! Fish and chips just has... _Fish and chips_! How boring is that?" Alfred sat back in his seat, grinning.

_Smug little git.  
><em>  
>"Tradition is one of the things innovation just cannot beat, Alfred. And if I had the time, I'd drag you down to-"<p>

_Oh fuck, the time._

In his scramble for his Blackberry to check the time, Arthur knocked over the bottle of sauce on the table, leaving Alfred to catch it just in time, raising an eyebrow at the sudden movement.

"_Woah_ there, alright alright, I get you. Tradition's important, yes, but-"

"That's not what I'm in a hurry over!" Arthur nearly shouted, simultaneously feeling around the booth for his wallet, and waving the waitress over. "Oh bloody hell I'm late," he mumbled to himself, accidentally shoving his wallet onto the floor in his hurry.

"Oh for-"

Alfred's laugh, loud and amused, cut over Arthur's agitated voice. Arthur looked over the edge of the booth, glaring what he hoped was daggers over the oak table, just about to ask _what the hell was so bloody funny about being late, and you surely wouldn't get it, you were twenty minutes late yourself today-  
><em>  
>"Relax, I've got it, don't worry," he grinned easily, pushing Arthur's wallet over the tabletop. "You're in a hurry right? I'll take care of if." He seemed to catch Arthur's wary look. "I'm serious! Don't worry about it, go. You look like someone who'd get his panties in a twist over being a second late."<p>

Arthur was just about to shoot back about how Alfred certainly couldn't speak of lateness when he was reminded of the time and decided to take up Alfred's offer instead, seeing as how the waitress seemed to be content with casually sauntering up and down the aisles of the shop, not heeding his wave.

"F-Fine then, thank you. I'll owe you one?" He called over his shoulder, pulling on his coat, and pushing the pub's door open.

"Holding you to that!" Arthur could hear right before the door slammed shut, as he ran off in the direction of his office.

* * *

><p>The next few days at work had proved to be a little overwhelming for Arthur to keep to that promise though. As much as he had considered inviting Alfred out (just to pay back for the lunch that he owed him, of course), work flooded in almost immediately. Lunch with Alfred would have to wait, Arthur decided, and busied himself with the negotiation of licenses for a few new books.<p>

He was considering sending out the invite through Heartstrings sometime in the weekends, and with that noted in his brain he set off to do things further up his priority list of urgent and important matters.

It was four days after, sometime during his lunch break when his Blackberry buzzed merrily, doing that little dance that all cellphones did when you set them on vibrate, and put them on a flat surface. Arthur picked it up, thinking that it was probably a new business related email, when instead a message window cheerily blinked back at him:

**freedomandliberty** would like to invite you to lunch on Thursday (24 Mar 2011, 12:00) at Gourmet Burgers! Accept/Reject?

Arthur stared at his screen for much longer than it was necessary to read a message of that length. Alfred? Was asking him out to lunch? _But why?_

Arthur himself had a reason to (he owed Alfred one), but Alfred most certainly did not. Unless - and Arthur found himself accepting this possibility very quickly - he was actually worried that Arthur was not going to uphold his end of the bargain and pay him back for a lunch?

"... Impatient git." He double checked his schedule for that week. Thursday was free, the blank box on his Blackberry seemingly taunting him.

_... Ah well, why not?_

* * *

><p>Most of the date, unsurprisingly, consisted of the two of them bickering over the merits of British cuisine versus American fare (although they both were inclined to agree that HP sauce was excellent). However, the two of them found enough time to branch out and expand their little heated arguments to other arenas, such as the role comics played in culture today ("Absolute rubbish," Arthur had frowned), to theater ("But how can you just sit there for <em>so long<em>?" Alfred whined, until Arthur threw a fry at him), and back to books again.

"What are you," scoffed Alfred, after finding out that no, Arthur Kirkland did not believe in ebook readers. "Stuck in the middle ages? Everyone uses ebook readers now!"

Arthur was aghast, to say the least. "They do not! My company and I are living evidence of how not everyone cares for this- This new fangled technology!"

Alfred snorted, draining the remains of his Coke. "Whatever man. Denial's more than just a river in Egypt and all that jazz. Books are gonna go down eventually, and you know it."

Arthur tried to seethe in anger for the remainder of the lunch, but it was sadly broken by his inevitable laughter at seeing Alfred gag at the experimental mix of sauces he'd concocted.

* * *

><p><strong>Arthur K.:<strong> I have come up with a British dish you will never say is disgusting. (10.04am)

Alfred, looking away from Matthew (who was unsuccessfully trying to chair the meeting), laughed silently at the text before replying.

**Alfred J.:** u sure? ;) (10.05am)  
><strong>Arthur K.:<strong> Very. And what is that wink for. (10.08am)  
><strong>Alfred J.:<strong> lol nothing (10.08am)  
><strong>Arthur K.:<strong> ... Tch, git. (10.10am)  
><strong>Arthur K.:<strong> I'll prove you wrong. Meet me at the corner of Tooley Street and Weaver's Lane, Tuesday, 2pm. Have your lunch first. (10.21am)  
><strong>Alfred J.:<strong> ok, see ya :D (10.22am)

Tuesday afternoon turns out fairly well, as far as their record has gone, with the two of them walking around Potter's Fields Park with a 99p Flake in each hand.

"So this effectively proves that not all British food is bad, doesn't it," smirked Arthur, biting the top of his Flake, before licking off some ice-cream.

Alfred gave a half shrug, concentrating on chasing the dribble of melted ice cream which dripped down the side of his cone.

"I dunno," he mused, cleaning off the remnants of crumbs off his lips with the back of his sleeve. "This feels like an exception, don't y'think? I mean, the ice-cream wasn't even really British-"

Laughing, and trying to protect his Flake, Alfred couldn't quite come to blame Arthur for cuffing him on his head.

* * *

><p>Alfred leaned back in his chair, kicking up his legs to rest on the desk, as he contemplated his phone.<p>

His fingers hovered above the text box for his message history with one Arthur Kirkland, hesitating. Biting his lip, Alfred seriously began to question himself, and his motives for this whole... _Thing_ he had going on. With Arthur.

A moment paused, and acceptance, for today, did not come.

_So more information then. I mean, he is our target group, really, and these are the kinds of people we're trying to help and-_

In an attempt to drown his own thoughts out, Alfred put on some loud music, and tried to focus on the spreadsheets he had open on his mac.

**Alfred J.:** wanna lunch on tues? (4.13pm)

He almost missed the buzz of his phone when a new text came in, and he most certainly did _not_ give a little fist-pump of victory.

**Arthur K.:** 1pm, that Indian place on More London Place. Don't be late. Again.

Alfred tried, during that lunch, he honestly did. He didn't even start off with the usual jab at Arthur which had become routine (Routine? _Routine?_ When the hell did _that_ happen?), instead going back to his _original_ reason for asking Arthur out. In the first place. Three dates ago.

"So you know, about Heartstrings?" He tried, poking around his naan with a fork.

Arthur looked up, seemingly startled at the mention of it. "Heartst- Oh. That. Right. How did you know I-" A pause, and Alfred noticed how Arthur's eyes widened minutely, as if taking Alfred in for the first time. He gave a short cough. "Y-Yes. Heartstrings. What about it?"

Alfred looked back down at his food, still poking at it with his fork. He realized, a little belatedly, that he had to make a decision.

_Well, professionalism's already this far gone..._

"Oh um, nothing," he grinned weakly, looking back up at Arthur, who had gone considerably pink, around his mouthful of curry, and tried to pretend he didn't find the blush attractive. Instead, he found himself laughing.

"God you British are pansies. Can't even handle some curry?"

He watched (strangely happy), as Arthur spluttered and swallowed, and made another jab at Alfred for something or another of him, usually due to his apparent "American-ness", which annoyed Arthur, or so he often proclaimed.

_Business as usual then_, Alfred thought, retorting by pointing out the amount of water Arthur had to down with every few spoonfuls, grinning at how easily flustered the other man got.  
><em><br>Except slightly different._


	4. Too Late

**Too Late**

Arthur Kirkland was a capable, intelligent man. He mentally kept track of all the tasks he had to do at work with little or no difficulty most of the time, and was the type of student who never had to jot down what homework he had (and still had classmates call him to ask him about various assignments and when they were due). In fact, he rarely forgot anything important (his umbrella or his cellphone, on several occasions however, failed to join him at work - but those weren't _that_ important), never missed a deadline, and prided himself on having his head rather firmly planted on his shoulders (and housing a rather fine brain).

Which was why he was panicking on the way back to his office after his lunch of curry with Alfred.

_How in the world did he even forget that he was using Heartstrings? _

He didn't forget that he was using the damned program - no, he wasn't _that_ terrible yet - but he most certainly _had_ forgot about the fact that Alfred wasn't just some random pal he had lunch with every now and then when he was bored, but _someone he met on an online dating service._

And just how many times have they 'dated' already?

_Four?_

Of course, the second date was only to pay Alfred back, and the third wasn't _really_ a date - after all, he had not invited Alfred through Heartstrings, and was merely trying to prove a point about British Food and retain some form of cultural pride... And the curry- The curry was... because he had _forgotten_. Until of course, Alfred had suddenly brought up the matter of Heartstrings in the middle of lunch.

The online dating service.

That he was using.

That he met Alfred through.

Arthur panicked.

In fact, the first thing he did once he reached his company was to call for a pot of tea, and the next thing he did once he was at his desk was to double check his profile on Heartstrings. Nothing in the Preference section of his profile - it was an optional field that Arthur had skipped over in his haste to complete his registration - which meant that, well, at least he was still safe.

Or was he?

Four dates. _Four._

But yet Alfred didn't really seem the type. The git was typically _American_, amongst many other negative nouns he could pull up at the moment, but he most certainly wasn't... _queer._ Not in that way anyway. Besides, Arthur argued to himself, barely noticing his secretary walk in with a pot of tea and his favourite cup until she put it down on his table (he had jumped, unwillingly, and she backed away apologizing in alarm - she _had_ knocked, just once, and since he asked for the tea she assumed that he was expecting her and didn't wait for him to say come in-), Alfred didn't seem _interested_ in him.

Even if he _was _a queer - and this was already very rude of Arthur to assume that of Alfred, he thought - most certainly he made no strange advances. He was good company (as much as Arthur despised the thought of ever admitting this in front of Alfred) and, despite all their conversations revolving around proving each other _wrong_ on something or the other, one of the few people that Arthur felt at _ease_ with.

(How alien it was, to admit to something like that, and yet how... Fitting. It wasn't something he could fully grasp, or explain. It was just that whatever Alfred managed to challenge him about, he managed to make Arthur re-think the things in a way which he never thought to before. The git.)

What if Alfred was like him and just wanted a companion to have lunch with? After all, he didn't use Heartstrings to invite him out to lunch today - it had been a text message that Arthur had replied to rather casually without thinking.

He felt the first cup of tea warm his throat, and Arthur gradually found his composure returning, the warmth bleeding calmness throughout. He was worrying for nothing. Everything was fine. Those four 'dates' weren't _dates_, how silly of him to assume that. They were just lunches with an acquaintance, just like how other normal people had friends they invited to lunch with. It wasn't as if he _didn't_ have friends, mind - there was always that Gilbert Weilschmidt that he went out every now and then to get knocked out with (amongst... Other people... Whom he simply could not name at the moment! That was all.)

He was alright. _They_ were alright.

And Arthur finally calmed down, poured himself a second cup of tea, and turned back to his computer.

His Blackberry buzzed merrily.

**Alfred J.:** how 'bout trying out a 'decent' date for once? ;) Saturday night dinner and movies?

_Coughchokesplutter_.

* * *

><p>Arthur, for the rest of his life, would deny that he spent a full hour deciding on what to wear on the Not-A-Date. Because that would simply be ridiculous, wouldn't it? Spending an hour (albeit interspersed with attempts to do workmake tea/read a book/sweep the floor) picking out clothes for a Not-A-Date which he would end, he decided, as soon as possible, at the first sign of Alfred thinking that the Not-A-Date was, well, exactly what he termed it to be.

An actual _date_.

But even if he never spoke of it again, the truth was that he kept coming back to his (relatively small) closet, constantly fingering through his shirts and pants and jackets, muttering to himself unintelligibly. And two changes of clothes (_and_ a pot of tea _and_ a cleanly swept floor _and_ a paragraph of a proposal) later, Arthur finally straightened out his favourite moss-green sweatervest for the last time, grabbed his keys and wallet and closed his door resolutely behind him.

He watched himself, with the slightest sense of dread, lock the door behind him, and let a short huff of air out. What on earth was he so nervous about, anyway, he asked himself for what seemed like the fiftieth time.

_People call meet-ups dates all the time! A-And it's probably some of his silly American logic which made him call it that, if it isn't what I think it is. Of course._

Comforted with the notion of the never-understandable American, Arthur happily stepped into the elevator and made his way to the Not-A-Date.

* * *

><p>Alfred, Arthur realized, with belated surprise, managed to clean up pretty well when he wanted to.<p>

The first time the two had met, that unfortunate (or perhaps not so?) day in the restaurant, he'd been dressed in fairly standard-issue attire for the district. White dress shirt, black slacks, loosened blue tie, he looked like just about every other businessman on the street.

The second (and third, and fourth) times though, had been markedly different. Each time, Alfred had shown up in remarkably casual dress, worn jeans and plaid shirt over a tee each time. The first time, Arthur had merely raised an eyebrow, and gone on with questioning Alfred on the extremely _questionable_ fillings the burgers seemed to have (chocolate spread and cheese? _Really?_).

The second time however, Arthur decided to mention.

"Were you having a day off today?" Arthur had asked, as they walked down one of the paths in the park.

"Hmm? Nope? Why'd you ask?" Alfred replied, nonchalant and focused on his melting ice-cream.

"Your choice of dressing. It's-"

Alfred laughed, cutting into his comment. "Dressing? What am I a salad?"

Arthur gave a loud snort, eyeing him. "Hardly, you twat. I meant what you're wearing. Your company lets you come into work like that?"

"Yeah," Alfred grinned, taking another bite of his flake. "No dress code," he mumbled, over a mouthful of ice-cream and chocolate. "And I can't be bothered to wear all of that troublesome stuff," he admitted, wiping at the corner of his mouth.

Arthur, then, had just snorted and tossed a napkin at him. "You can't be bothered to do plenty, as it seems."

But today, _today_. Arthur eyed Alfred over the candlelight (_shit what? Candles? Candlelight? As in, _candlelight dinner_? W-When the fuck did the candle get here! It certainly wasn't here when we sat down, when on earth did it-_), as he pretended to read his menu.

Today, Alfred had seemed to get over himself nicely enough, and the bother which dressing nicely apparently entailed. The nice blue button-down he was wearing brought out his eyes rather nicely (although Arthur would sooner eat another one of those burgers that day rather than admit it), and the dark jeans he had donned for the occasion, a steep contrast to the worn pale blue ones he always seemed to wear was... Quite pleasantly attractive, to say the least.

Alfred looked up right then, and easily caught his eye, grinning.

"Like what you see?" He joked, laughing at Arthur's flushed spluttering, as the other man ducked behind his menu.

"Shut up and pick what you want to fill your bottomless stomach with, Alfred."

* * *

><p>Dinner went by unremarkably, or at least as unremarkable as meals went by for the two of them, with a modicum of bickering and debate.<p>

Apart from the awkward moment where Alfred quite strenuously insisted he foot the bill (thankfully, after some rather heated arguments made, and some staring from the other patrons, Alfred was cornered into splitting), everything had went pretty well. Well. That's if you didn't consider the constantly-niggling thought, at the back of Arthur's head which occasionally screamed at him to _bloody well set things right now, you coward!_ About what, Arthur tried not to think of, and instead, focused on what Alfred was saying right then.

"-So... A movie?"

Arthur had nearly done it then, he honestly nearly had. They were right under a lamp post, and the bloody _golden light_ was streaming down on them so nicely Arthur could have cried at how perfectly (_disasterously, horrifically, terribly, awkwardly, _although part of the tragedy was how _un-_awkward it seemed to be) scenic it was. The voice at the back of his head had been steadily rising to a hysterical shriek, but as he looked up at Alfred, so bloody _hopeful_ and _nervous_, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat, as if anticipating the put-down Arthur was going to deliver, and it was right on the tip of Arthur's tongue when-

"I was thinking of watching the latest Harry Potter, maybe?" He added.

- When _that_ gave Arthur some pause.

A lot more pause than he'd have wanted, right before a put-down which, as it seemed, was never meant to be.

Arthur gave his dry, wind-chapped lips a quick lick, the silence suddenly very bothersome on his end, as he fell into step beside Alfred.

"So what time's the screening?"

* * *

><p>Alfred had settled down rather happily in the seat next to him with a large cup of iced coke and an extra large tub of popcorn, which gave Arthur a chance to further pursue his initial hypothesis of Alfred's overwhelmingly large appetite, and the possibility of a stomach-black-hole in Americans. (Seriously though, after that large a piece of steak?)<p>

For Arthur, it was a much welcomed distraction, and he managed to get through the awkward before-lights-dim phase without worrying too much, and instead falling back into his comfort zone of Insult Volley with Alfred.

By the time they had exhausted each other and their capacity to argue about bottomless stomachs and Why Popcorn After Dinner Doesn't Count ("Separate stomachs man, separate stomachs. This one goes into like, my dessert stomach." "Your _what_?"), the lights went off and the movie started, and Arthur was beginning to believe that perhaps things wouldn't be all _that_ bad now. Besides, it was a _Harry Potter_ - movies couldn't get any more family-friendly and Not-A-Date worthy than that.

... Or so he thought for the first thirty minutes into the movie.

Because thirty minutes later, distraction set in. Alfred's arm was currently in the process of fighting his arm for space on the armrest between them, pressing rather persistently against his arm. Arthur, out of complete courtesy (and nothing else, he'd swear) shifted discreetly away to give Alfred his much desired arm-room, only to have the side of Alfred's arm give chase and plaster itself to his arm again.

Arthur's eyes were watching the movie, but he really didn't know what Harry was saying anymore, distracted by the problem at hand, literally. Looking down, Alfred's exposed forearm was side-by-side to Arthur's own, tinted by the light of the movie, washing the contrast of Arthur's white shirt to Alfred's tanned skin in watery tones of blues and mottled greens and- And his wrist was periously _close_ now, Arthur was half-startled (and yet, strangely, also half not-so) to note, their pinkies _almost_-

He threw a very quick sideways glance at Alfred - the git was watching the screen with wide eyes, his right hand shovelling mouthfuls of popcorn into his mouth, his left arm plastered against Arthur's, and he was most definitely _not_ bothered or distracted by the contact (the git. The _oblivious git_). Arthur discreetly moved his arm a hair's breadth inwards.

Forcing his eyes back to the screen, Arthur tried to concentrate on the movie.

_Well, perhaps Alfred simply just wants the bloody armrest. He can have it, then._

Trying to not be too obvious about it (and not completely understanding _why_ he was so considerate about this), Arthur began to further inch his arm - _very slowly_ - off the armrest when there was a sudden, dramatic peak in the music and gone was the side of the arm and instead Arthur was very sure that whatever was firmly pressed against his arm at the moment was more _Alfred_ than anything else.

Completely bewildered and startled, Arthur fully turned to face Alfred, who was currently clutching onto his arm with half his face pressed against his shoulder, both eyes squinted close as he muttered (_whined_) a chain of 'omigod's.

Slow realization was beginning to dawn, and Arthur was almost reluctant to see it coming, because it was somehow equal parts disappointing and _utterly ridiculous_ all at once.

Oh _but he couldn't be-_

Arthur tried to turn back to the movie and pretend that there was no Alfred clinging to him, because the git was (out of all things possible) apparently scared of... Sudden movements and loud music and... Whatever that black shadow flickering across the screen was (Arthur had a feeling that they had been death eaters, but how could a _grown man_ be scared of that?) - his brain buzzing at the feeling each time Alfred chose to re-bury his head against his shoulders or give his arm a really hard squeeze. Arthur could feel his arm going numb, but that numbness did nothing to make him forget of exactly who was clinging at his arm right that moment.

In fact, by the time the ending credits rolled in and Alfred finally let out a sigh of relief and released him, Arthur realized that it wasn't _just_ his arm that was feeling out of place, his lower back was beginning to ache slightly because he had apparently stiffened completely and refused to move an inch throughout the entire thing.

_Bloody hell_, he thought, irritably, rubbing at it.

"T-That was..." Alfred began, as the lights came on, and people started to stand up.

"Utterly terrifying?" Filled in Arthur, as dry as ever.

"YES!' Cried Alfred, much to his disbelief (and amusement), as the other man turned to face Arthur, his face slightly flushed from tearing at the final few scenes, which Arthur pretended wasn't at all endearing, and instead, utterly ridiculous. "Didn't you think so too? I mean man, those _death eaters_! Their _masks_!"

Still trying to rub some feeling into his arm, Arthur could feel the corners of his lips upturn slightly at the incomprehensible mix of ridiculousness and amusement which seemed to be his default reaction to his new friend.

"Mhm," he supplied, as the two of them stood up on slightly wobbly legs, as they always tended to be after a long movie (and of not moving for a little over two hours, in Arthur's case).

Having missed a step, Arthur felt himself lurch forward a little, only to be caught by a warm hand on his arm. "Woah there," laughed Alfred, as he gripped Arthur's forearm, still trying to adequately juggle his drink and popcorn in his left hand. Mentally berating himself for startling at every instance of physical contact, Arthur couldn't help but turn back, blinking, to find Alfred grinning back innocently at him. He gave Arthur's arm a quick squeeze before letting go.

"You better watch your step," he smiled, giving Arthur a slight nudge in the back to keep him from holding up the line of people behind them.

Disproportionately embarrassed for holding up the line, Arthur felt the rush of blood to his cheeks as he made his way down the remaining steps as quickly as he possibly could, without tripping. Again.

* * *

><p>The end of the Not-A-Date found Arthur and Alfred walking down the street of Arthur's apartment, Arthur half-arguing with Alfred, this time about the merits of Twilight, which Arthur found <em>utterly<em> disturbing.

"But _why_, Alfred? There are so many other perfectly good romance novels out there, if that's what you're looking for," Arther said, yet again, slightly exasperated.

Alfred couldn't do much but shrug, kicking idly at a piece of gravel on the pavement.

"I dunno, it's different, y'know? And yeah, there are lots of other awesome romance novels and stuff, but Twilight's kinda different. I mean, it's really romantic, isn't it?- Don't say anything, just let me finish alright?" He grinned, putting a hand up to Arthur's face, effectively blocking off the retort.

Arthur himself came to a stop, in front of his apartment block's steps, and Alfred leaned against the stoop's walls, biting his lip in concentration.

"I mean, it's the idea that they have this... This love which can't really be explained, but it's so awesomely strong that it overcome so much shit. It's..." Alfred trailed off, rubbing at the back of his head awkwardly, grinning. "It's pretty much what everyone dreams of right? A love like that."

Arthur, for once, couldn't seem to find any appropriate retort. Alfred seemed to consider it a victory and a case well closed, as he pushed off from the low stone wall, towards Arthur.

And suddenly, so very, horribly _belatedly_, Arthur realized that with the two of them here, after the candlelit dinner and the movie and Alfred walking him home, they had been on an actual _date_.

_Fuck._

Thoughts were streaming through his mind all too fast, and time wasn't slowing down for anyone, as Alfred smiled again, albeit slightly awkwardly this time.

"So um, good night, Arthur?" It was phrased like a question, Arthur could hear it in the intonation of every syllable, and yet there seemed to be no time whatsoever for answers, as Alfred began to lean in, slowly, yet in the whirring of Arthur's brain it was _just way too bloody fast what am I supposed to do I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO SAY I'm not ready for this I didn't even think-_

Alfred's lips were an inch away, when Arthur's voice seemed to find itself, alive and kicking and-

"W-WAIT HOLD ON A SECOND I'M NOT GAY."

The awkward silence, with their lips barely an inch apart, Arthur's eyes opened comically wide and a slow, heated flush creeping across Alfred's cheeks _almost_ made him wish his voice had kept up its absence for a second longer.

* * *

><p><strong>Authors' notes:<strong>  
>Hello everyone, thank you so much for your continued support and interest in our little project here! We can't tell you enough how much we appreciate every reviewfavourite/alert heh! We'd like to apolgize for the huge cliffhanger we've just left you, we'll try our best to update by the weekend! Also, neither Hika nor I have watched HP7.2, so uh, we tried our best to gloss over that ahahaha /awkward laugh

Also! We'd really like your opinions on the format of the story from here on! Hika and I have a ton of side-story ideas for the Heartstrings AU we've created, some little moments between our main pairing, some background snippets, as well as a ton of side-pairing stories (Matthew/Francis, Prussia/Hungary etc!). What we'd like to know is if you guys would prefer to see all that in a completely seperately published story, or integrated into this one.

So that's about it! Again, we'd love to hear from you, so please do drop us a review! Hope you're enjoying this as much as we are!


	5. Too Confusing

**Too Confusing**

Alfred - to Arthur's silent frustration - didn't move away. He seemed to be frozen in that moment (minus the rather bright flush that was currently spreading through his entire face), though his mouth was opening and closing and twitching, as if there was a flood of words fighting to exit, but yet couldn't. Arthur was trying his best to not move either, though the urge to just _step away right now_, excuse himself and run for his apartment was definitely rather overwhelming.

"You're _not?_" Was what stumbled out finally, and Arthur was seriously contemplating if he should take offense at that.

A few seconds later, heart still racing, the persistent _throbthrobthrob_ of blood in his ears, Arthur decided that he absolutely _should _take offense.

"No! I am most absolutely _not_! What the hell do you mean by that question!"

"_B-but_!" Alfred spluttered, "You accepted my invite! _Invites_!"

Arthur shrunk at that. That was right. It _was_ technically his fault for accepting invitations. And if he had a reason, it was a stupid one. But stupid reason or not, he _had_ to make it clear.

"... I didn't check your profile because I was busy. And assumed that you had to be female." He stared pointedly at the cracks in the pavement, foot subconsciouly drawing a strange oval on the ground, and wondered why couldn't have the ability to shrink so that he could fit into those convenient little spaces right about now?

"You _what?_" Alfred's voice was a picture of complete despair and exasperation. Arthur didn't dare to look up to see if his face would be that of equal potency.

"... All the other six people I've accepted were never male." He mumbled under his breath, still refusing to remove his eyes from the ground. "B-besides," he coughed, trying to retain some of his _dignity_ in the situation (which was ultimately a lost cause, because the ability of his argument to convince seemed limited to Arthur's mind). "I never put that I was interested in people of the same gender on my profile!"

"You didn't put that you were straight either!" Alfred's hands looked like they wanted to close around his shoulders to give him a good shake. Or, Arthur realised with slight alarm, go around his neck to strangle him. He managed to stop himself though (this Arthur noted with utter gratitude), and take a rather shaky step backwards, "So that's it? It was all some huge misunderstanding? You assumed that I would assume that you were straight since you didn't fill in a _preference_?"

"Well that's the norm isn't it! How many males out there are-" Arthur stopped himself in mid-snap, because he had made the great mistake of looking up, and Alfred's face was in so much shock and loss and _pain_ that he faltered and felt his heart twist rather painfully in his chest too.

_See? _The little voice in his head chided, accusing and patronizing at the same time, _See why I told you you had to set this straight? Ages ago? Before you even agreed to come out today? See what being a coward did?_

"I'm _sorry_." He managed_, _and realised it sounded more pathetic than he would have liked it to sound. "I wanted to tell you today but there just wasn't the chance to... A-And besides, I thought it would be rude to assume that you were... _You know _- What if you weren't and I made a fool out of myself by thinking that you were interested in me- and- I... I know that's not a valid excuse anymore but-" He stumbled in mid-sentence, and fell silent again. Alfred said nothing, as if waiting for him to continue, but when Arthur opened his mouth again no more words formed, and he felt like the most ineloquent bastard in the whole world, just standing there waiting for the moment to pass.

It was true though. He had truly believed in the fact that having someone genuinely interested in him was a great improbability, and as much as Arthur had been indignant about this fact during the dinner with his aunts, the subsequent dates he had went on seemed to prove their point. Of course, Arthur didn't think that he was _undesirable_ or anything, he just realised that perhaps most of the average, normal human beings in the world would not be too desperate to get into a relationship with him.

He had reasonably, in the same line of logic, thought that it would thus be quite impossible for Alfred to like him in that way. What were the chances? A bloody 0.001%?

Alfred was looking at him, pure exasperation on his face, mouth slightly open, the muscles in his cheeks rhythmically tensing and releasing. "I'm sorry," Arthur repeated, but it just didn't sound valid anymore, and the only thing he could think of was how he wanted to disappear, and for Alfred to stop looking at him like that, blue eyes beseechingly asking him _how, why, _and _why not_, at the same time looking so betrayed, so lost, so-

_(Heartbroken.)_

They stood there for many more minutes, not really saying anything else. Alfred was still searchingly trying to catch Arthur's gaze, which Arthur made a point to avoid completely.

Then finally, after what seemed almost like an hour to Arthur, Alfred shuffled his feet awkwardly and took a step forward. "... I-" He started, then stopped again, shifting his weight from one foot to another before shoving his hands into his pockets resolutely. "... I should be going then. Good night, Arthur."

Then he walked away.

Arthur watched until Alfred shrunk into a little black shadow that disappeared down the turn of the next street, feeling rather empty and cold and small and like a terrible, terrible person.

"- Night," He finally managed. It sounded like a croak.

* * *

><p><strong>Gilbert W.:<strong> I'll b there in 10 ;) Missed me, boss? (11.02pm)

Arthur let his head rest on the oak bar counter, pillowed by his arms, as he tucked his blackberry back into the pocket of his pants. He didn't feel that Gilbert's text warranted any reply.

He'd felt so utterly _stupid_, standing there on the stoop of his own apartment block, his head too full of thoughts and un-quiet to want to face the empty apartment he'd have to eventually go back to. Arthur's fingers had clenched and unclenched next to him, grasping at thin air and catching at nothing. So he fell back on what he always did after a bad date.

**Arthur K.:** Meet me at our usual? (10.43pm)

Which was where he found himself now, eying the scotch the bartender had sympathetically (_sod the bastard_, Arthur thought to himself, irrationally irate. They'd been around so much lately that even the _bartender_ knew what was up when the two of them came here) put down in front of him.

He let his gaze settle, after one mouthful, back into the glass he held, watching the ice melt.

_What the fuck am I doing?_

No answer was forthcoming, so he continued to stare into the glass, thoughts wandering. He honestly had no idea, _at all_. It was disconcerting, Arthur mused, as he swirled the glass around, watching the amber tint of the liquid cast golden-brown shadows onto the dark wood below. Arthur Kirkland wasn't used to having no clue about what he was doing, and it'd been a long time since he had no clue.

Saying that Arthur liked a firm grip on his affairs would be an understatement in every sense of the word. "Control freak" was one word for it, used to the point of exhaustion by his employees, but Arthur knew, somewhere deep down, that it went beyond a need for controlling others.

It was a need for something stable. Something concrete, pre-established and empirical, something that wouldn't jump out and surprise him or be pulled from right under his feet. He was comfortable with being straight. He _was_ straight. He had never taken a particular interest in other men before, and he took that to be a cue to heterosexuality, irregardless of the success of his relationships with women. It was comfortable, knowing your established place and having a clear pattern to follow in life.

Arthur downed his scotch in one, feeling the spreading warmth of the liquid burning a path down his throat.

Alfred didn't follow the pattern.

If this had been a statistical study, Alfred would be an abnormal outlier, a piece of data which Arthur would have squinted at, puzzled at it's sheer existence, and he would eventually delete it to get the standard curve he desired. But as hard as Arthur may wish at times, life was in no way a statistical calculation, and there was no clean way of deleting anomalies in data. It was like a pencil mark which left an annoying groove in the paper, etched in, invisible at first sight but always bothering you at the second check for perfection, harassing you with the idea that there could have been an alternate data pattern, somewhere perhaps if you _just_-

Arthur motioned the bartender over, pointing at his glass, massaging his right temple.

He felt a solid hand give an almost-too-hard slap at his back, and Gilbert slid into the seat next to him. Gilbert Weillschmidt was the Head of Publicity at Albion Publishing. Back before Arthur had gotten promoted (and in Gilbert's voiced opinion, "gotten a huger stick up his ass"), the two of them, and occasionally Antonio, Head of Human Resources, had gone out drinking often, for the lack of interest in doing anything else particularly. Time had changed them, or at least had changed Arthur, and now their drinks were limited to the polarized occasions of the Very Happy or the Very Sad. Or, in the case of this meeting, The Failed Date. It'd been popping up a lot more lately.

"The hard stuff already, boss?" He grinned, motioning to the bartender for a beer.

"The point, Weillschmidt, is to get knocked out."

Clicking his tongue, Gilbert pulled his own phone out as he waited for the beer. "That bad?" He asked idly.

Their drinks came, and Arthur knocked his down in another gulp, and Gilbert cocked an eyebrow.

"You have no fucking idea," Arthur mumbled, setting his glass back down with a little more force than necessary. Noticing Gilbert's expression, Arthur raised an eyebrow of his own. "This your first time, Weillschmidt? Haven't seen a man _want_ to get smashed before?"

Gilbert looked back down at his phone, message box still empty. Suddenly, Arthur seemed to have the right idea. A moment passed between them, and Arthur slid his Blackberry across to Gilbert. He spun it around with his finger once, before pocketing the phone.

"Nah, right behind you."

* * *

><p>Matthew noticed something was wrong the moment Alfred stepped into the apartment. He had been comfortably settled on the couch, flicking through television channels, when his brother made a rather loud and dramatic entrance through the door, a little <em>too<em> happy and energetic and enthusiastic to be convincingly so.

"- And then it was like, there was this loud crash, and then the magic spells were like _fsssshh_ and _baammn_ and _aw man _it was pretty damn awesome!" Alfred finished, flopping down on the couch next to Matthew, finishing his dramatized re-enaction of the special effects with a final hand flourish. "Man, you should watch it some time! It was totally as cool as they said it'd be!"

Matthew switched off the television.

"Aw hey-! Why'd you do that for? I kinda wanted to watch that episode of CSI-" Alfred reached for the remote, "And could you get me a coke? With ice? Oh oh! We should totally open up a new packet of-"

"Alfred." Matthew started, moving his hand away so that the remote was dangling just a little out of Alfred's reach.

Alfred paused, then pouted slightly, returning to his battle to reach for the remote control. "Come on brooo-" he whined, "It's just every now and then that I ask you for a coke..."

"How was your date?"

Alfred froze in mid-reach. Matthew raised a knowing eyebrow as his brother shrunk back into his place on the couch, bringing his knees up and hugging them to his chest, eyes looking at the television screen, "Well." He started, grin faltering slightly, "It was pretty cool. I mean, we had a nice dinner, the steak was great, and then we went for the movies, and Harry Potter was really cool... and then-"

Matthew sighed. Alfred was starting to do his rocking thing. He was completely unconscious about this particular habit of his, considering how shocked he was when Matthew pointed it out once. "What happened?"

Pause. The only thing Matthew could hear for the next minute was Alfred rocking awkwardly on the couch, the sound of the springs squeaking under their weight and the shuffle of Alfred's feet.

Then finally, Alfred let out a wail. "HE'S STRAAAAIIIGHT!"

Matthew readied the tissue box. This was going to be a long night.

* * *

><p><em>4 mugs of beer and 3 glasses of scotch later<em>...

"Chicks be _craaaazy_," Gil grinned, nodding at Arthur's sorry, bent-over-the-bar-top-half-tearing state. "Fuckin' _crazy_ I tell you," he reiterated, waving his beer mug in Arthur's general direction. "Y'know I told ya about this... This girl I used t'know- She was nuts," He frowned, eyes slightly glassed over, as if imagining her all those years back. A smirk crossed his face at a memory. "_Definitely_ fuckin' nuts. She- _He-_ _God_, she thought she was a-"

"If HE was a girl," Arthur cut in, pushing himself up from the counter, "This wouldn't even be a problem," he announced.

Gilbert paused in his own ramblings, considering Arthur.

"You're not gay?"

Through his liqeur-addled mind, Arthur tried to be as indignent as he could possibly muster. "B-Bloody- Of course I'm not!"

Gilbert gave him a once over. "Y'sure?"

"W-WHAT DOES-"

Rolling his eyes, he pushed another glass into Arthur's hand. "God, don't get your panties in a twist." Arthur started up at that again, but Gilbert was not to be deterred. "Just sayin' that sometimes you don't really know."

There was a quick silence, as Arthur drank more, and Gilbert wondered who exactly got his boss into such a sorry state.

"So how do you... Know?" Arthur asked, frowning over the edge of his glass.

Gilbert shrugged, pushing his own mug around on it's own condensation. "I dunno. Experiment, I guess."

"_Experiment_? How do you even-"

Gilbert shot Arthur a lecherous grin. "Wanna know why I'm so close to 'Tonio?" His grin widened at how wide Arthur's eyes were going, comically exaggerated by his tightened grip on his cup. "We had another friend too, back then- This Frenchman pfft. He was..." Gilbert paused for effect.

"He was _good_."

He doubled over in laughter at the look on Arthur's face. He knew that the Englishman was by no means a prude, but the information had seemed to be too much for him, as Arthur attempted to push himself up further from the counter. Sadly, the alcohol seemed to affect him more than it did Gilbert, and Arthur's arms failed him at the last moment, as did his legs, when he pushed himself off the stool and instead, crumpled onto the floor in a groaning heap.

Gilbert honestly didn't _mean_ to laugh that loudly, he honestly hadn't, but he couldn't seem to care any less about getting kicked out of the bar with Arthur either. It wasn't even a real kicking out, he thought to himself disappointingly. The management had become exceptionally familiar with the two of them, and their ejection from the bar was no longer a decent one, but more of a _oh you poor sods, just go on home already_ kind of job.

_All the fun has been sucked out of my awesome life_, Gilbert thought to himself, half-sour at having to shoulder half of Arthur's weight, as he slumped against him.

"_Giiiilbert_," Arthur sobbed, pressing his face into the albino's shoulder, "he thinks I'm _gay_!"

Attempting to shove him back upright without moving around too much, Gilbert only succeeded in knocking his left shoulder against Arthur's forehead, sending him groaning. Which, he reflected, was probably a lot better than sobbing though.

"Yeah well," he huffed, trying to hoist Arthur up, his own limbs not all that steady himself (although probably in a lot better condition than Arthur's). "He's gay too, isn't he? So what's the problem?"

Arthur seemed to quieten at that, pondering the thought, turning it over in his mind. Snorting at how utterly slow Arthur could get when drunk, he felt the press of Arthur's Blackberry in his left pocket against his thigh, and wondered just what this guy had done to Arthur (sensible, straight-forward, stick-up-the-ass Arthur) to reduce him to this.

"I'M NOT A FAIRY," Arthur finally concluded, shouting into the quiet street at three in the morning, finally getting enough control of his limbs to drunkenly hug Gilbert, his face pressed against his neck.

"And you're doing a very good job of proving that," Gilbert grinned, pushing the blond head back, to slide against his shoulder.

* * *

><p>Half an hour or so passed, before Alfred's ranting degraded itself into incoherent blabbering and sobs, and Matthew decided that it was finally the right time to stand up - leaving Alfred clutching dejectedly at the tissue box, sniffing and blowing his nose into a tissue at intervals - and make his brother a cup of hot chocolate. He even put marshmallows in the cup, which Alfred seemed to appreciate, judging from the look of pure gratitude and blue eyes that shined (as much as they could, considering how puffy and red-rimmed they currently were) with much admiration for his brother's perfect choice of drink preparation.<p>

The tissue box abandoned temporarily, Alfred sniffed loudly and proceeded to blow and sip at the cup of much required sugary happiness. Matthew sighed again (he had been sighing through the entire evening, when he wasn't giving Alfred pats on the back and meaningful looks and appropriate nods at different points of the story) and sat back down on the couch, waiting for Alfred to recover.

Finally, after much sipping and content sighs, Alfred asked the question these sessions always came to, "... So what d'you think I should do?" He looked a little surprised at how funny he sounded with a nasal block, and proceeded to attack his nose with a tissue paper.

Matthew raised an eyebrow. "You're asking me? What do _you_ want to do?"

Alfred looked over at Matthew over the blossom of tissue papers around his nose, then slumped over rather dejectedly the next moment. "I don't know... I mean... he's _straight_, and that was probably him telling me that he never wants to see me again..." Alfred trailed off, looking more and more depressed each time a second ticked by. Then, with renewed conviction, blew his nose hard into the tissues.

"Did he say that?"

"Yea! Well- _No_, but he said sorry." Alfred made a face, scrunching the tissues into a ball and throwing it at the nearby bin (and missed, Matthew noted, which meant that he had to go and pick it up later, at a more appropriate time), "_Twice_." He added and nodded solemnly at that, as if he had deciphered the unknown language of Arthur Kirkland and was terribly satisfied at himself.

His face fell back into its dejected state almost immediately though. "... We should make the preference section a compulsory field, Mattie." Alfred mumbled darkly under his breath, "Just so that people don't assume that other people would think they are straight just because they didn't _say_ that they were gay. Or bi. Or anything." He slammed the now-empty cup down on their coffee table.

Matthew smiled slightly at that, then cleared his throat. "Bi or gay or straight, he still went out with you didn't he?"

Alfred turned to Matthew slowly, and then blinked twice. Judging from the blank look on his face, he had not really caught the point.

"I mean, even if the first date was a mistake on his part..." Matthew started slowly, "The next few dates still happened. If he _were_ really disgusted by you, I don't really think he'd have responded to anything. Didn't he even ask you out once?"

"B-but I mean- he said he was-"

"Maybe he _is._ Or he thinks he is anyway." Matthew paused for a moment, then added, "Maybe you confused him. _Then_ you moved too fast for him to catch up."

Alfred gave him his kicked-puppy look. "Really? You think so?" _Sniffle_.

Matthew was probably one of the (very) few people in this world who could stare down Alfred's kicked-puppy look in the face and not react to it. Instead, he shrugged. "I don't know. It's a possibility." He threw a sideways glance at Alfred and let out a defeated sigh. "If it bothers you, you should talk to him about it. You know, clear it up properly at least. And stop whining."

Alfred broke into a rather sheepish grin at that. "_Aaaaahhh_ I'm going to look like such a loser tomorrow!" He threw the tissue box at his brother and jumped off the couch. It landed rather ungracefully in Matthew's lap.

"I'm going to sleep!" He announced, making a show of walking towards his bedroom, before turning back to look over his shoulder at Matthew. "... And you should too." Alfred dropped his gaze slightly, then coughed, "Y'know... thanks. For listening and all that."

Matthew nodded, then waited for Alfred to enter his room before standing up to pick up the wad of tissue and drop it into the bin. "Anytime, bro."

* * *

><p>Gilbert padded back into the living room after fixing his coffee, neatly stepping over Arthur as he had a few minutes before. He watched the man drool for a few moments, a small puddle collecting where his slack mouth met the floor. <em>He'd better clean that up later<em>, Gilbert grimaced, moving towards the shuttered blinds of his living room.

_But till then, why not prolong the bastard's pain?_

"GOOD MORNING SUNSHINE," he yelled, sipping at his coffee mug, grinning down at Arthur. It was what most of his drinks with the man came to really, Gilbert deriving pleasure from seeing his friend in a lesser state than him. And with Arthur having a far lower alcohol tolerance, and a far larger hangover problem, moments like these were bountiful.

He sipped at his coffee again, still smiling, as he squatted down to pat at Arthur's parquet-marked cheek in mock-affection.

"So how is my little _prinzessin_ doing this beautiful morning?"

Arthur swatted at him irritably, hand missing Gilbert completely as he laughed, and continued to prod at the man's prone form. Luckily, he'd come prepared, Gilbert thought happily, as he picked up the cup of ice he'd taken from his refrigerator. It was, admittedly, one of the favourite parts of having Arthur sleep on his floor.

Snickering, he picked a cube and lobbed it at Arthur's forehead. _Pok._

"Nngh Gil... F'ckn'_st'p_ tha'..."

_Pok_. The second one hit his eye, and Arthur gave a loud groan and rolled over (into his own puddle of drool, Gilbert noted happily enough).

The third one landed nicely in Arthur's left ear this time, causing him to spasm a little with the sudden chill, flicking irritably at his ear to remove it.

Gilbert could almost hear something that sounded a lot like _fucking Weillschmidt_ coming from Arthur, and he figured his job was almost done. He bent down, pulled at the back of Arthur's shirt, and let the remaining ice cubes cascade down his back.

This, Gilbert thought to himself, laughing like a hyena, would be one of those things that never got old. He watched Arthur squirm and wriggle, his feet kicking against the floor, in a vain attempt to push himself up, yet failing miserably in the process. Arthur was torn between cursing Gilbert to high hell and groaning at the throbbing headache, leaving him to some form half-and-half of each ("_You fucking- Unghhh this- Gilbert you're going to- Fuck this shit I-_").

Finally though, the show was over, and Gilbert sat back in his couch watching the last few moments of it, as Arthur stood up on wobbling legs, shaking the ice out of his sweatervest and shirt.

"No need to thank me for the best wake up ever," Gilbert grinned, "I know, I know- After this experience, you just want to move in with me and stay here forever to bask in my awesomeness. Sorry boss, but no can do. I know I've rejected you before but-"

_Pok._

"Ow!" Gilbert winced, from a half-melted ice-cube to the eye.

"Don't be a git," Arthur frowned, tugging at his sweatervest, as if it would straighten the hours-old wrinkles out. He rubbed at his forehead. "Panadol?"

"Get it yourself," Gilbert replied, still a little sore, jabbing his thumb in the direction of the kitchen. As Arthur shuffled off, still cussing under his breath, Gilbert felt around his couch for the Blackberry. He ran his finger along it's smooth lines, the pad of his thumb grazing the keypad. He hadn't looked, but even holding the phone in his hand made him curious.

"Where is my- Oh," Arthur came back into the living room, holding a mug of coffee himself. He eyed Gilbert semi-suspiciously, before snatching his cell out of the other man's hands. Gilbert rolled his eyes, and raised both hands in surrender.

"Didn't do anything to it, boss." Which just made Arthur even more suspicious, as he checked the phone himself, as Gilbert watched, still sipping at his coffee.

He watched the set of Arthur's jawline, the firm line he'd pursed his lips at, as Arthur's eyes narrowed a little, reading whatever was on his phone. There was a moment of frozen emotion as he keyed in his password for the second time, before his jaw tightened even further, the grip on his blackberry not loosening any. Arthur looked up.

"What?"

Gilbert shrugged, eyeing him. This wasn't at all standard proceedure, but he figured he might save himself some pain (and more drunken escapades) in the next few weeks if he'd broken tradition now.

"Just thinking, that's all. That you might want to call him or something."

"W-What are you-"

Gilbert snorted, unamused at Arthur's feeble attempt at feigning forgetfulness. As much as Arthur may not have remembered about the night before, he had spent the better part of it talking at Gilbert about Alfred. He had to remember something.

"I was just, y'know, putting in my two cents or whatever shit you call it. That you should call him and set him," Gilbert snorted at his own wordplay, "straight. Or gay. Whatever."

There was a lull in the conversation, as Arthur tucked his phone back into the pocket of his pants, and shook out his coat, which had been lying on the floor beside him. He was very pointedly not looking at Gilbert, instead settling to stare at the puddle of drool on the floor, now mixed with melting ice.

"But I'm not gay."

The pause that followed was loaded, as Gilbert continued to stare at Arthur, maroon eyes unrelenting in the silence, and Arthur eventually looked up to meet his gaze. They stared at each other for a period, before Arthur looked away, blinking, rubbing at his head. _Headache_, he was clearly projecting at the albino, but Gilbert knew better.

"Whatever you say," he smiled, lazily reclining back onto the worn cushion of his couch.

Without looking back at Gilbert, Arthur pulled on his coat and left the other man's apartment.

* * *

><p><strong>Authors' Note:<strong>

Thank you for all your feedback regarding the structure of this fic! Following the majority, we'll have the other arcs in seperate stories, which we'll link you to, after we post them! Look forward to it!


	6. Too Drunk

**Too Drunk**

A week later found Gilbert and Arthur in the exact same bar, in the exact same seats, just with Antonio on the other side of Arthur this time. The same place, the same routine, yet somehow different.

Because _god_, what a _week_ it had been for Gilbert and Antonio.

An emotionally drained Arthur was apparently (as the two of them had never seen Arthur quite this emotionally distressed before) a workaholic one as well. While this may not have proven to be much of a problem for the other two, had Arthur still been in his old, singular position of Chief Editor of Albion, with his overachieving ass (as Gilbert liked to put it) given the dual position of Branch Manager as well as Chief Editor, Arthur was now in a position of power. _Great, great power_, Gilbert thought, bitterly. And as everyone loved to quote, "great power comes with great responsibility".

It was a great, great pity that Arthur felt that the responsibility bit was a mere bonus to the Great Power package, dismissible on a whim. It was either that, or a sudden, overwhelming surge of responsibility, and the need to Better The Company in any way he could. Which meant for a sudden tsunami of work for his two immediate subordinates (other than his secretary, _the poor girl,_ Antonio had murmured, as he and Gilbert had watched her tiredly brew her boss' seventh cup of tea for the day). Their week had been flooded with a litany of orders to amend proposals and reports which had already been cleared in the previous weeks, and follow-ups to projects which really didn't require follow-ups at all. New meetings sprung up out of thin air, popping up at lunches, late evenings, and early mornings, leaving all participants cursing under their breath in hunger/exhaustion/sleepiness respectively. It had been a horrible week, to say the least, and everyone was not looking forward to the next. Already swimming in work, Gilbert and Antonio received buckets of complaints as well, from their subordinates, which they could hardly rebut against, when they themselves were feeling that Arthur was being utterly ridiculous as well.

All of which, cumulated in this Friday night, at The Oriental Unicorn. Gilbert was on good enough terms with the management in general, to have approached them and to ask, as politely as he could manage, if they could please help with his and Antonio's plan to get Arthur as drunk as possible. In various states of amusement and concern, they all agreed, well-enough, to largely ignore Arthur and whatever antics he may get up to, for the night.

Which brought them back to the present, as Gilbert motioned to the dark-haired bartender, calling for their first round. With seemingly more amusement than the customary brief flash of sympathy this time, he brought their usual drinks over, walking away with the slightest hint of a smile at Gilbert.

"What's up with him tonight?" Arthur idly asked, turning his glass around on it's coaster, unused to the lack of sympathy at their appearance at the bar.

"Dunno, maybe Antonio being here threw him off the sympathy train or something," Gilbert replied, waving away the thought.

"Huh," Arthur murmured, taking a sip and massaging his forehead. "God, what a week, wasn't it?"

Gilbert and Antonio exchanged quick glances behind Arthur's slumped back, before returning to the bartop.

"Yeah," the Spaniard finally replied, laughing tiredly. "Don't you think we're doing a little too much, Arthur? I mean," he rubbed at the back of his neck, smiling (although the creases around his eyes were telling). "We can afford to slow down, there's really no rush to-"

"I was thinking of doing more, actually," Arthur cut in, running his thumb along the rim of his glass thoughtfully. "There are some positively ancient projects which we've dismissed, and after looking through them, they're actually quite relevant. I was thinking of resurrecting a couple of them, perhaps. So I'd need-"

"BARTENDER," Gilbert suddenly bellowed, waving his arm about, trying to get the man's attention. "Another round for the stodgy Englishman!"

* * *

><p>"A-AND SOD HIS-" A loud sniffle, "- H-HIS FUCKIN' BLUE HAIR AND BLOND EYES." Arthur paused, wiping aimlessly at his eyes with the back of his hand, his mouth leaking scotch in the most undignified manner. He seemed to be wondering what was wrong with his previous statement, and was yet unable to grasp at it, instead deciding that another mouth of scotch might solve his confusion instead.<p>

Gilbert and Antonio watched, amused, their first rounds barely touched, in the interest of getting the most out of this night, sober. It was paying off rather nicely, as it turned out. Antonio had been concerned that Arthur might have started spewing work and promoting boss-driven terrorism after getting pissed, but Gilbert assured him, that after what he had seen the previous week, it was unlikely that it'd be the case.

So in the past hour or so, they'd been treated to Arthur's loud proclaimations of how _the bugger had been wearing the most fuckin' awful shirts for the whole time, but the idiot just _had _to clean up for t-that last dinner and he looked so _good _and why the fuck was he a guy, Gilbert, why not a girl, WHY?_

Gilbert had grinned, not at all sympathetic, and instead clapped Arthur on the back. "'Cause life lives to do things like that to you, boss."

Antonio, who had been previously unconvinced of their plan, during Arthur's last two glasses-worth of rambling and hysterical tears, became firmly lodged on Gilbert's side of the argument.

The owner of the bar began to shoot the trio wary looks. As much as he'd agreed to the plan (after much cajoling from the staff, in particular, due to the help of the curious and excited waiter and waitress), he had also voiced his concerns. But so much noise would be bad for business aru, or something along those lines, Gilbert recalled.

As he waved over the bartender for Arthur's fourth drink, Antonio shot Gilbert's pants pocket a pointed look, which he nodded to.

On the walk over, after the three of them had decided that they'd be going drinking tonight, with Antonio cheerily walking in front, talking at them about his latest date with some guy he had recently met ("Aaaaah, Gil, he has the most adorable little hair-curl ever! You guys should definitely meet sometime! But he's a little shy with strangers so-"), Arthur had given Gilbert A Look. A look, which had been accompanied by the passing over of his Blackberry. Gilbert hadn't forgotten the little talk they'd had in his apartment last week, and Arthur's pointed look at Gilbert seemed to cement the idea that the Englishman hadn't forgotten either. In reply, Gilbert merely grinned, raising an eyebrow, and accepted the Blackberry.

It had been stowed away in the left pocket of his slacks, where it usually would have stayed till the later that night (or the next morning, depending on how much of a lush Arthur felt like being that night). However, tonight, it was due to make a reappearance.

"A-And the sod didn't even _call me_- O-Or text me or anything," Arthur whimpered, his head dropping to the bartop, and his dignity dropping to never-seen-again depths. "Why didn't he call me, 'Tonio, why?"

Antonio, only slightly alarmed at Arthur's almost hysterical state, still managed to smile happily enough, reaching over Arthur's back to gesture at Gilbert for the phone. "Well, _I_ think it's because you pretty much rejected him by telling him that you're not gay. But you know, that's just me." Seeing a convenient opening in the conversation, he quickly slid Arthur's blackberry across the bartop, letting it clink softly against Arthur's second empty glass. "But I mean," he started up again, brighter this time, "That's just me! Why don't you call him and ask!"

Seemingly befuddled by the brightness of Antonio's voice and the reappearance of his mobile, Arthur blinked at the black device, and for a moment, Gilbert and Antonio almost thought that he wouldn't fall for it.

Fortunately enough for the two of them, Arthur's mind seemed to clear enough (or cloud further, depending on how you see it) for him to reach over and fumble with the keypad.

"I'M GOING TO- TO TELL THAT GIT OFF ONCE AND FOR ALL!" Arthur grinned, manically, in a sudden moment of drunken eloquence and clarity.

And for once, Gilbert and Antonio delighted in the phone call to come (after the first few times, the novelty had worn off, and thus began Arthur's arrangement with Gilbert), and hopefully, the more peaceful weeks ahead of them.

* * *

><p>Alfred, in the past week, had taken to the art of juggling his phone. He was getting pretty decent at it, and now had the ability to toss it to-and-fro between his left and right hands without looking at it. As the rest of his company staff noted, he was also rather good at walking around tossing it, and had once even done some thing very close to a performance antic, where he had tossed it into the air, did some funky dance step, and caught it behind his back (victory pose at the end included).<p>

Matthew had simply gave him a look, both eyebrows raised in query, and Alfred had shrugged him off, returning to Phone Juggling as he continued on with discussing that new update of the code he wanted to add on to the site with Kiku, and how was that new update for the mobile app going, and Could They Please Make That Preference Field Compulsory? (The slightly confused Japanese would later, out of sheer Japanese Brilliance, link this persistence to change with the previously excited chatter about a certain Englishman, who now failed to emerge in consequent conversations and would reluctantly agree that this patch was indeed necessary, Exactly As You Have Pointed Out, Alfred-san.)

Alfred was waiting. Biding for time like a good child who was just told by his mother that _if he really wanted that cookie in that cookie jar_ he had to finish all his homework and behave and _not_ sneak into the kitchen at night and try to _steal_ from the cookie jar for a week.

A week ago, the day he woke up with rather puffy eyes and went around the whole day trying to act cool with huge shades instead, Alfred had drafted out six different messages to Arthur. The first five he had given up on halfway, partially because Matthew walked in on one of them, the other sounded stupid, the next one was becoming irrelevant, etcetc. The sixth one had been completed, a rather eloquent "we should meet and talk :)" (smiley face included in hopes that it would somehow help lose the tension that Arthur might get from seeing those words together, wink rejected just in case Arthur thought he was being flirty) but he had been three seconds from pressing the Send button when he remembered what Matthew had said.

_"Maybe you confused him. _Then _you moved too fast for him to catch up."_

Alfred had paused then, finger hovering over the Send button, every single nerve and instinct in his body telling him to _send_ the message screw Matthew and his strange logic, Arthur and him needed to _talk_ and they needed to talk _right now_, and he had - to his own surprise - pressed the Save To Drafts button and closed the message app.

Every single day, at strategic points of his free time, Alfred would reopen this draft message and repeat the above steps. Two days was still too soon. Three days was too close to two and made no difference. Four... four could wait. Five was probably still a little _too_ fast for that old man. Six... Six... was...

At the end of the week Alfred found himself comfortable settled on his bed after a dinner of microwaved pizza with Matthew, with a few comics and his psp but staring at his phone again, and wondering if perhaps _now_ was an acceptable, good time to send the message. Because _jesus, _had he _ever_ waited this long for _anything?_ All the other previous dates that he had been desperate to fix - not that he had to fix much often, and not that he had been ever this desperate to fix anything, how funny - went exactly according to his plans. Not that he ever had any plans, but if he had plans, they'd be a lot like that. Dinner because he wanted to, a date at the amusement park because he wanted to, kissing and cuddling and maybe even something after because he had wanted to... and _now_ he was waiting to send a single _text message_.

"That's it." Alfred mumbled to himself. Even the stupidest of all main characters in those visual novels Kiku introduced to him never waited for more than _one week_. Mouth set in a firm line, psp abandoned with a pause screen flashing on it, Alfred picked up his phone that he had never pocketted in the past week (always juggling it, always having it on his desk, just in case he missed a message or a call - not that he thought Arthur had much balls to do that, but just in case), opened his message app and-

Squawked because his phone jumped to life in his hands just before he could open the conversation with a certain Arthur Kirkland, buzzing and playing its very loud ringtone of a tecno mix of Stars & Stripes. And Alfred stared in sheer amazement, because the name on the screen was definitely not part of his message app window, but rather his _caller ID_, and it said in simple, bold letters: Arthur Kirkland.

He realised he had paused for much longer than necessary, and hurriedly accepted the call, nearly dropping his phone as he brought it up to his ears. "H-hello?"

Arthur called. Arthur _called. Arthur_ called!

"Y'BLOODY GIT! IT'S ALL YOUR FAULT!"

Alfred had to pull his phone away from his ear almost immediately. He _knew _his iPhone had very good speakers, but _this _was unexpected. "Uhm, Arthur?" He cautiously brought the phone back a little closer, just to question the person on the other side of the phone, who was definitely sounding a little _too_ loud and broken to be that Arthur Kirkland he knew.

There was a slight pause on the other side of the phone, followed by - oh gods was that _really_ - a rather loud sniffle, a bit of ice clinking, the sound of swallowing and a cup being slammed onto a wooden couner, before Arthur continued, victoriously and almost _definitely_ drunk, "ALL Y'R FAULT I SAY. I'VE NEVER BEEN SO BLOODY PATHETIC. EVER. AND IT'S CUS YOU DECIDED TO-" _Sniff_, "GO AND MESS UP WITH MY LIFE." Another pause, and this time the reply was almost a whine, half muffled by what Alfred believed was a tabletop, "And you didn't _call_. Or _text_. And I've been looking at my phone this whole bloody week I didn't even forget it to work- And everyone keeps _looking at me _like I'm some-" _mumblemumble,_ "-not a fairy. Or a poofter. Bloody hell."

"Arthur?" Alfred approached cautiously, suddenly feeling very confused, "... are you drunk?"

"THE HELL I AM." More ice clinking, more loud swallowing, another satisfying _kerthunk_ of the glass hitting wood. "ONE MORE SCOTCH PLEASE," another voice yelled.

"You're drunk." Alfred decided, and wondered what he should feel about this.

"M'not. Can totally take more than this. Now listen here-"

"Arthur."

"Will you _stop_ calling my bloody name in that terrible voice of yours like that!" _Mumblemumble,_ "-feels funny when you do."

Alfred felt a sudden urge to massage his temples. He did, with his free hand, then continued, as calmly as he could in his pamper-the-clients voice. "Arthur. We need to talk, but I can barely make out what you're trying to tell me at the moment. Call me later alright? When you're uh..." Pause. "... feeling better."

The reply was a loud and incoherant chain of vulgarities, (the only part Alfred understood being the fact that it was _loud_) and Arthur was mumbling at some points and roaring at others and becoming less and less coherant each second, and Alfred realised that he couldn't put down the call - not with Arthur like this - and leant back trying to make the most out of the conversation, realising that he couldn't.

It was probably forty minutes or so later when Arthur finally fell silent after a rather loud thunk, and then there was only background noise before the phone clicked off. Alfred put down the phone, the silence in his room suddenly overwhelming.

* * *

><p>Arthur, again, woke up to ice bits being flicked at him, shoved down his shirt and ears and two idiots (who the bloody fuck is so happy in the morning anyway?) giggling like teenage girls at Arthur squirming to get the chips off him.<p>

Head still pounding, he pushed himself up on weak arms, glaring as much as he could at the Spaniard and German, who were flopped on Gilbert's couch and grinning down at him.

"_Guten morgen, prinz-_-"

"Sod it. Just... Hand me my phone and a panadol and I'll just get going-"

Antonio pointed to the pill and glass of water on the table, and Arthur should have taken that as the first point of something being up. As much as Antonio was a generally nice person, neither he nor Gilbert ever got the painkillers ready for him. Ever. Gilbert was too much of a sadistic bastard to _not_ want to watch Arthur stumble and knock into five hundred different things on the way to the kitchen, and Antonio was a little too absent minded to remember.

He watched the two of them, still grinning at him as if he were the most amusing thing in the world as he downed the pill.

"Now can I have my cell back?"

If it was possible, both their smiles seemed to increase in wattage, but it was the little wicked glint of Gilbert's eyes that clued him in.

"You two wankers better tell me what you've been up to or I'll-"

"Why don't you get your phone first?" Chirped Antonio, far too happy to be natural, even for the Spaniard.

"Well, I _would_, Carriedo, if your friend would just-"

"It's right beside you, dumbass. It was in your hand till you woke up," Gilbert added, eyes still glinting.

Arthur paused, and felt around behind him, hand clasping over the black device.

"Why-" The look on his friends' faces was enough to turn him ashen.

"Y-YOU- GILBERT WEILLSCHMIDT, I AM GOING TO FUCKING _MAIM_ YOUR SORRY ARSE. YOU- _YOU-_"

"Yes," Gilbert nodded, mock-humbly. "Yes I did give you back your phone while you were drunk."

"D**-**Did I...?"

"Yeap!" grinned Antonio, sipping at his coffee. "You called him. We were there," he added, pointedly, nodding towards the cell. "Also, in case you forgot, Alfred asked you to call back. When you were 'feeling better' or something."

"Which basically just means 'not drunk'," Gilbert supplied, pretending to be helpful. The git, Arthur thought to himself, his head still hurting, but for a multitude of reasons this time.

* * *

><p>Gilbert and Arthur had An Arrangement. It wasn't spoken about, at least not explicitly beyond the first time. The first time had been about five or so years ago, a little while after Arthur had entered the company, before he had become Chief Editor and Branch Head. Being a hyper-efficient workaholic with a stick up your ass apparently wasn't something you could just switch off, Gilbert had realized. That day, Arthur had gotten into a rather loud argument with the Chief Editor at the time, regarding workflows and schedules, or something along those lines. In a similar vein of discovery, he had found out that the Chief Editor didn't like being told by some greenhorn editor that he wasn't doing his job right. It'd been loud, messy, and <em>very<em> public, leaving Arthur standing in the meeting room alone (seething), after his superior yelled that he'd be doing some firing the next morning. Arthur had done the responsible thing, and called Gilbert up for a drink at the pub (always The Oriental Unicorn), not before giving him some very strict instructions.

"Weillschmidt," Arthur called.

Gilbert looked over, an eyebrow cocked. "What?"

Sliding his phone over (a motion which would be repeated over the next few years, mutltiple times in the same seats, so much that the management would joke about them wearing down a groove in the bartop), Gilbert caught it with ease.

"You giving me your phone? Sweet! I can finally-"

"No you wanker, keep it for me," Arthur cut in, rolling his eyes. "Just... For the night. Make sure I don't call-" He coughed, his expression tightening at the thought of _that man_. "That I don't call _him _tonight."

Equal parts amused and shocked at how much Arthur trusted him, Gilbert pocketed the phone. "Yes boss," he replied, smirking, giving Arthur a two-fingered salute. As the other man called the waiter over, Gilbert tried to ask, as casually as possible, "That bad eh?" He had heard about the catastrophic meeting, from other friends in the editorial department, but had yet to come across any good details.

Arthur tapped at the bartop impatiently, watching the amber liquid slide from bottle to glass, as if trying to seduce it over with his eyes.

"Don't ask."

* * *

><p>And so Gilbert never did. The Arrangement repeated itself a few times over the next year, sparingly, usually only when things got Really Bad, for either of them. It was a fixed ritual, with no questions asked, and phones easily returned with no form of blackmail (except for that one time which involved <em>Gilbert<em> getting sodding drunk and Arthur, for once, marvelling in the delight of soberity). It all went rather smoothly for the most part.

Till today.

Arthur moved first before his brain could comprehend anything in its state of a painful hangover, fisting his hand in Gilbert's collar, the throb in his head thudding betrayal into his ears. Antonio looked as though he was ready to spring up and remove Arthur from Gilbert, but Gilbert held up a hand to stop him, maroon eyes meeting Arthur's coolly, head slightly cocked.

They stared (glared, in Arthur's part) at each other for the next few minutes, Arthur with his teeth gritted, fist trembling around the fabric of the German's collar, Gilbert's gaze almost _daring_ Arthur to make a move, any move. And all there _really_ was in Arthur's head was how Gilbert had _betrayed_ him, and how could he, after all this time? He wasn't supposed to call Alfred, not in that _drunken __stupor_ that he had heard too much about but never remembered enough of.

But as he looked at Gilbert, that _soddingly calm_ expression, he felt deeply unnerved, like he was missing a page in the book, the penultimate page to the chapter, leaving him sitting there without any idea of what happened, but only what became of it in the end. He stared, jaw tightening, and suddenly, Gilbert smiled. It wasn't an outright smirk, or one of those lazy smiles he got when he got away with something, it was small and private (and _penetrating_, seeing things which Arthur himself couldn't see) and Arthur was so startled by what that smile could mean (as his mind scrabbled for the edges of the missing page), he let him go.

They stood in stunned silence (on Arthur's part at least) for another moment, before Arthur clicked his tongue, frowning as he tore his gaze away, grabbed his coat and slammed the door on his way out of the apartment. Again.

_Bugger it._

* * *

><p>In the safety and comfort of his own apartment and a cup of warm tea later, Arthur found himself staring at his phone, the panadol refusing to work on his persistent headache. He didn't remember exactly what he had said to Alfred, other than the fact that it was probably all very embarrassing. Antonio had said that Alfred asked him to call back when he was sober, but-<p>

Arthur rubbed his temples, feeling his face begin to heat up as his brain registered the gist of how awkward the situation currently was.

Did Alfred even _want_ to talk to him now?

Trying to ignore the sudden rather painful twist in his chest at that thought, Arthur instead busied himself with pouring another cup of tea.

No matter what, his brain reasoned, he owed Alfred an apology. But was that really it? Calling Alfred wasn't as simple as another pathetic sounding _I'm sorry_. Calling Alfred meant a lot more than that. It meant facing the fact that he had been feeling empty and lost and pathetic the entire week. It meant that he had to admit to waiting for Alfred to call, or at least text. And that _every time_ he realised a message had _not_ arrived his heart had fallen, shrunk and twisted and compressed itself into a cold and miserable mess.

It was so confusing, so complex, so utterly _terrifying_ that the only way Arthur found himself able to deal with it was to bury himself in as much work as possible. Let his mind zone in on something else more concrete, solid, and comfortable to work with. But the worst part was the fact that deep down he had already acknowledged it; the fact that he was feeling _something_- he wasn't sure _what _but it was definitely not _nothing_- every time he tried to deal with the Alfred problem.

He looked back down at his phone, thumb on permanent standby above the Call button, and inhaled-

- _Maybe_ he didn't need to call. Maybe Alfred was so put off by him yesterday night he had lost all interest he ever had for him. Maybe-

And Arthur realised with growing dread that he felt _terrible_, and that he had never felt this terrible, not over a person, ever.

He pressed the call button, shakily bringing the phone up to his ear, hoping very hard that Alfred wouldn't pick up so that he could just give up all hope, perhaps even get drunk again, and go back to his previous way of life-

"Arthur?"

_Bollocks_.

Arthur wet his lips nervously. His throat felt rather dry despite the cup of tea he had just downed. Then he opened his mouth and _croaked _(oh god why did he have to croak-), "H-Hello."

"Hey." Came the one word. It sounded slightly wary, cautious even, and Arthur suddenly found it _very_ hard to swallow.

Frustrated, he cleared his throat, feeling the panic well up from his stomach and threaten to lodge itself in his windpipe instead. "... About last night. I'm sorry. I wasn't supposed to call." Then, realising that Alfred probably had no idea what he was talking about, hastily continued, "I didn't mean to, uh, startle you or trouble you like that, it was just that I was drunk, and-" _Perhaps you should just forget that I called. Or whatever I said_. But that failed to come out, and Arthur found himself desperately trying to search for something _else_ to say, something that could possibly delay Alfred from talking, because if he sounded like he couldn't care less, or if he was disgusted, Arthur most certainly wouldn't be able to handle it.

"- I... I think we need to talk." That came out sounding a lot softer than he had intended to, and Arthur's pride prickled considerably at that.

There was a pregnant pause on the other side of the line.

Arthur panicked. "Uh. It's alright if you don't want to. My main point was just to apologize for yesterday night anyway. For uh, you know, drunk banter and all that. It'd be lovely if you'd just-"

"N-No, um, yeah. We can talk." _Pause._ "What about?"

_What about!_

Arthur felt the back of his neck prickle and his palms go cold, and he realised that he had - literally - just broke out in cold sweat at that single question.

_Bloody hell_ this was a mistake. It was a big mistake. He never should have called.

Arthur found himself frantically staring around the room, as if the answer would be written somewhere, hopefully on a cue card of sorts in neat block print, and realised with growing despair that such a thing didn't exist. "About- About, well er. I suppose you could say it was mainly about yesterday night. And er, what I said... Or didn't say- Back then and yesterday too and uh, I thought maybe-" He winced, inhaling sharply and suddenly finding that this was far too painful for him to handle, and he sounded like the most pathetic _loser _at the moment, and _oh god_ _what about?_ His hands and neck were cold but he could feel his _ears _burning, "I just thought that-"

_Oh god I'm not making any sense._ Arthur realised, going more distressed by the second.

"- Maybe I could- You- We could..." He groaned. This was proving to be far more challenging than he thought it would be.

Perhaps, perhaps he could suggest to Alfred that he would just text him later and-

"Uh, Arthur? You're actually making less sense than you did last night."

Arthur felt like knocking his head against the table, but it was too far away.

"I'm sorry. I just-"

"How 'bout we meet instead?"

As if things couldn't get any worse.

"Uh, meet?" Arthur croaked. It sounded almost like a whimper.

"Yeah. I don't know, maybe you'd calm down over a cup of coffee or something. We could meet at that cafe down-"

_A cafe! Outside?_

"- Tea!" Arthur decided, firmly, before things got _too_ out of control. "At my house!" He added hastily, then realised what he had just suggested and groaned inwardly. "I mean, if... That's alright with you."

"... Alright, yeah. Sure. I'll be there in thirty." Arthur didn't think that this was worth letting out a sigh of relief for, but at least things were under control now, and Alfred was _not_ going to force him to talk in a bloody cafe or anywhere else public.

"I'll text you with my apartment number." Arthur finished, shakily, and wondered if there was a way to convince Alfred that perhaps he should consider coming after a few more _hours_ instead, but the American had already clicked off his phone.

* * *

><p>The doorbell rang a lot earlier than Arthur had hoped it would. He had been counting on Alfred to be late - at least as late as he had been on their first date - but the American had been surprisingly on time, turning up a mere two minutes later than the thirty-minute count he had provided (Arthur had <em>not<em> be staring at his phone the whole time to check for the time, just... every three minutes or so), slightly flushed and grinning awkwardly at him through the peephole.

Arthur tried to breathe, and instead found himself letting his forehead thump against the cool wooden surface of his door.

Alfred rung the doorbell again. Impatient git.

"... Alright, alright." Defeatedly mumbling under his breath, Arthur subconsciously straightened out his dress shirt (he had changed into a fresh set whilst waiting for Alfred), inhaled deeply, and opened the door.

"Hey." Alfred said, then cracked into that same awkward grin.

Arthur dropped his eyes hurriedly. "... Come on in then. I'll make tea." He retreated as quickly as he could from the door without looking too unnatural, motioning rather awkwardly to the couch, "Just... Have a seat or something. And close the door." He wondered if the last part was redundant, but rushed for the safety of the kitchen instead, and began the process of trying to calm himself down by the routine of making a pot of tea.

By the time he returned to the living room (after much internal struggling- But the tea would have gone cold if he had stayed around any longer...) Alfred had settled down quite comfortably on one end of his couch, and looked like he was currently surveying Arthur's choice of decor. The moment Arthur came out of the kitchen though, Alfred quickly turned his attention to him, much to Arthur's discomfort.

"So, uh," Alfred shifted about slightly on the couch, "... You had something to say?"

Arthur bit the inside of his cheek _hard_, and set the tray down on the table, that familiar sensation of all his insides tightening up all at once beginning to well up again. Trying to ignore it, he poured two cups of tea and sat down with utter, deliberate slowness, brain turning the possible sentences over and over in his head, wondering how in the world he was supposed to explain this to Alfred without confusing him again.

"... I'm sorry about last night." He started with the easiest thing first, "I was obviously too drunk to be thinking straight." He winced inwardly when his mind notified him about the rather ironic pun.

Alfred seemed more interested in staring at him rather than touching the cup of tea in front of him, and Arthur willed with all the might in his head for Alfred to just _turn around and grab that bloody cup of tea and look somewhere else for once_ but he never did. Neither did he say anything to Arthur's apology, blue eyes intently trained on Arthur's face, _waiting._

_Oh for Christ's sake-_-

"That night, when I said I wasn't," _Cough,_ "Gay... I wasn't lying. I'm not... I'm not interested in guys, and I don't think I will ever be..." He trailed off, still trying to sort out the mass confusion in his brain. How was he supposed to talk to Alfred about _anything_ when he himself didn't know what he was thinking? He couldn't really see Alfred's face either - couldn't _bear_ to look - and stared at his cup of tea, hands twining themselves in and out of the throw-over on the couch. "But I-"

Here came the hard part. This was where everything had to go off. All the stops that he had plugged into himself ever since who-knew-when, all the rules and regulations that he had written for himself, all the things that _defined_ Arthur Kirkland-

(That he never really _needed_ anyone else, that no one was important enough for him to go out of his way to tell them that they were needed-)

"... I don't dislike being with you." He managed, face scrunching up at how inadequate that sounded, how there _should_ have been a better way of putting it, a way that perhaps would help Alfred understand _more_-

Then something warm and firm touched his hand and Arthur _jumped_, and he snapped around only to see Alfred jump too, his hand awkwardly suspended in midair,

"Sorry!" Alfred squeaked, then cleared his throat, both hands held up in what seemed like a gesture of goodwill, "No go?"

Arthur took a moment to contemplate what the hell that meant in American, regarding Alfred with furrowed brows.

"Okay." Alfred smiled defeatedly, putting his hands down on the couch. "No touching."

_Then_ Arthur realised what it was all about, and mentally knocked his head against a mental wall, reaching for his cup of tea to hide his frown - he didn't _mean_ to reject Alfred like that (again), but that touch had come so unexpectedly... - and took a sip-

"I like you a lot, Arthur."

-cough_choke._

Arthur looked up from his cup of tea, wide-eyed and trying to cough the liquid out of his windpipe. "How the- why-" He had expended so much energy and time trying to make his feelings _coherent_, and Alfred just _blurted_ something like that out the way someone would ask casually for ketchup with their fries. "D-don't say embarrassing things like that!" He wheezed, then downed some more tea to soothe his throat (and heart).

"That was _embarrassing?_" Alfred looked truly confused.

"H-how the hell do you say that like it's- Like you're- Like the most normal thing to say?" Arthur realised that he was done with his cup of tea and now had no other excuse to hide his face with the teacup.

To his horror, Alfred's mouth twitched, his lips clenched together for a moment - and Arthur _knew_ that face, it was the face that everyone used when they were let in on a joke that Arthur wasn't, and when they were trying to keep a straight face at him but obviously couldn't - and the next moment a rather stifled _pbfffttt_ escaped.

Then Alfred burst into a fit of giggles, leaving Arthur to stare at him in utmost _shock _that he was actually _laughing_ at him in this situation.

"W-what's so funny!"

"_Dude,_" Alfred wheezed, still trying to stop giggling, "I knew you were _bad_ at this but this is a completely new level of _fail_!"

Arthur prickled visibly, "I _beg_ your pardon!" But to his annoyance this didn't stop Alfred from laughing for another minute or so, clutching at his stomach gasping and wheezing for air and wiping the tears from his eyes with the back of his hand.

"... So," Alfred said finally, still grinning like a silly thing. "You like me."

"I-" Arthur spluttered. "I never said-"

"... So you don't?" Arthur twitched as he watched Alfred's face fall almost immediately.

"I- I don't _dislike_ you, and I most certainly wouldn't be calling someone if I didn't _care_ for them, but whether or not I like-" More spluttering.

"That's the same thing as liking someone to me."

"Well... I don't... I don't _know._ I've never been-"

"In a relationship before? Yeah, it totally showed."

Arthur growled. Alfred held up both hands defensively, "Hey, I've got no issues with that. Really. It's kinda funny anyway." He watched Arthur's expression darken at that, then added helpfully, "And cute?" Then beamed happily as he watched Arthur turn redder than he already was.

Arthur was clutching at the throw next to him, eyes darting all around the room and trying to avoid looking at Alfred. He didn't want to admit it, but at the moment his heart was racing, and he was sure that wasn't very healthy at all. "... But I've never had an interest in males before... and I don't know how-" _mumblemumble,_ "Things like these _work_, and-"

"How 'bout this then." Alfred leaned back against the couch, still smiling. "We've established that I like you," an eyebrow raised in amusement when Arthur reacted _again_, Alfred made no comment and continued, "And that you don't really have that big of a problem with me, other than the fact that you are a complete failure at relationships-"

_Growl._

"-And that you don't think you're gay." Alfred finished. Arthur was glaring at him, but the fact that his face was rather red and that he didn't _punch_ him or do anything to him yet convinced Alfred that he was still somewhat on safe grounds. "Let's... You know, try it out? No point thinking about something you don't know about."

Arthur's mouth hung open for a moment. "Try-"

"Yeah. Take it slow and all that. And you can... Decide if you're really straight, or gay, or bi, or me-sexual in your own time." Alfred looked rather proud of himself as he said that, nodding rather sagely with his arms crossed over his chest. "You cool with that?"

Arthur froze when Alfred turned to him again, blue eyes earnest, _waiting._ "I-"

"Object now or forever hold your silence!"

The silence lasted for several minutes, with Arthur staring very hard at the carpet on the floor, fist clenching and unclenching in the same throw he'd been playing with for the past half hour, so much so that his hands had been inevitably tangled between the fine, pale tassels at the edge of the fabric. He tugged at them absently, his entire brain such a mess that he couldn't think, brain whirling with... _things_ that he couldn't identify and sort and categorize and analyze properly. Alfred was throwing him worried glances, and he just really couldn't think _or_ get his hands out of the mess he'd made of his hands. It felt like some kind of foreboding symbol of sorts.

He gave his fingers another focused tug. The pale, silky things just weren't giving way. Light-headed by everything (and at the same time, the absolute _nothing_) which was going through his mind, Arthur nodded.

It took everything in Alfred to _not_ let out a whoop, and celebrate the end of the longest, most painful confession session he had ever been through in his entire life.

Instead, he just grinned. A lot. For the whole day, and let that warm, fuzzy feeling sink in, barely restraining himself from reaching over to give Arthur the would-have-been-the-biggest hug of his life.

* * *

><p><span><strong>Authors' Note:<strong>

Hello again! Sorry this one's taken a bit longer, Hika's been picking up the slack for me, oh dear. But anyway, hope you enjoyed it!

Also, if you'd like to see some very very lovely fanart, please go go visit Hika's DA account (glaceauDA)! She's a genius at drawing, so do go and marvel at the prettiness that is her Arthur and Alfred! It's entitled Heartstrings, and isn't at all hard to find!

Thanks again guys 3 


	7. Too Awkward

**Too Awkward**

Alfred, as Matthew had noted over his twenty-five years with his twin brother, was _shit_ at subtlety.

The two of them had been splayed out on the couch for the most of the night, with Matthew taking up one end, popcorn bowl seated in his lap, and Alfred's head rested near his lap, his legs dangled over the other armrest. Occasionally, he'd extend an arm behind him, hand aimlessly grabbing at the bowl, sometimes smacking into Matt's arm or face, until Matt got sick of it and reached over to stuff a handful of popcorn into his brother's mouth.

It went on like that for a while, until the sighs started.

On hindsight, Matthew realized that he should have known that something had been up with his brother. It started out with Matthew heading back into his room after dinner, only to be stopped by Alfred.

"Wait!"

He turned back, curious at how panicked Alfred sounded. "Hm?"

"Uhhh," he fidgeted, fiddling with the edge of the cushion absently, as he leaned against the back of the couch. "Movie?"

"Oh. Yeah, sure." Matthew headed towards the couch instead, used to Alfred's whims of movies and gaming nights. "What did you wanna watch?" He asked, after landing back onto the cushions, looking up at his brother who was still standing behind.

"Uh," Alfred's eyes went slightly wide, as if shocked over this turn of events. As if _he_ hadn't been the one to pick the movies for most of their movie nights. "A-Anything," he eventually blurted out, climbing over the back of the couch to sit, eyes resolutely fixed to the blank screen. "You pick."

Raising an eyebrow, Matthew stuck his choice into the DVD player and sat back down, still suspicious.

Which brought them back to this point, with Alfred taking up the better part of the couch, occasionally punctuating the silence of the movie with loud, obnoxious sighs. Matthew wanted to sigh. It was getting to the climax of the movie and Alfred was just plain ruining it.

Matthew watched, transfixed, as Cobb watched his wife in the apartment, his mouth open to speak when-

When the loudest, most attention-seeking sigh issued itself from Alfred's mouth.

Pushing at the pause button on the remote with a little more force than he probably should've used, Matthew threw the black device down, narrowly missing Alfred's head.

"W-Woah, Matt! What-"

"Spit it out, Al, I want to get back to the movie."

"What're you talking about? I wasn't-"

"Yes you were," Matthew ground out, frowning down at Alfred's upturned face. "You were sighing."

"I-I didn't mean to- I mean-"

"You were so loud, the guy next door could probably hear you, Al."

Matthew watched as Alfred pouted, looking back up at the ceiling again, not meeting his eyes. A few moments paused, as Matthew reached back into the bowl for more popcorn to pass the time. Alfred, he knew, could be a real procrastinator when he wanted to. He'd chase thoughts around his head, in ever-looping circles of logic in his brand, pursuing them to hover on the crumbling cliffs of circles, only to go into far-reaching tangents which he never came back from. Sometimes, Matthew had realized, he just needed a little prodding.

"Al?"

He watched as Alfred's eyes snapped back into focus, blinking at his face. "Oh. Um."

"Mm?"

"Ireallywanttoholdhishand," Alfred blurted out in a rush, his eyes squeezed shut.

"What?" Matthew frowned, tearing his gaze from the paused screen, back down to Alfred.

In a rush, Alfred sat back up, cross-legged, facing Matthew and looking completely serious.

"I-" His brother swallowed, biting his lip in nervousness. "I want to hold his hand," he repeated, slower, with all the seriousness of a six-year old in the same situation.

Matthew looked at him for a long, hard moment, studying Alfred's serious, concentrated expression with a pokerface.

Then he snorted, rolled his eyes, and reached back for the remote between them.

"Well alright then Al, I suppose if you _must_, you could _probably_ hold Arthur's hand. I mean, it might be _completely unexpected_, considering you guys haven't been dating for the past- What, two weeks? But you know, he'll get over it and-"

"MATTHEW," Alfred shouted, pulling the black remote just out of reach. "I'm being serious!" He paused, setting back down, toying with the remote in his lap, fingers running along the smooth plastic. "And- And you know how Arthur is. About us."

Matthew stopped trying to grab at the remote for a while, and settled down similarly, till they were facing each other, cross-legged, Alfred with the remote in his lap and Matthew with the popcorn bowl.

It was true, he thought. He did know how Arthur apparently was about the... _Thing _he and Alfred had going on. The very night they had gotten it sorted out, Alfred had practically ran home, high as a kite, barrelling into Matthew's room and pulled him off his desk chair in a huge hug.

"HE SAID YES, HE SAID YES!~" Alfred had screamed in joy, face broken into a wide, happy smile, glowing as if Arthur had accepted a marriage proposal instead of an okay to start dating.

That had been two weeks ago. For the most of it, Alfred had been happier than usual, which more or less made Matthew happier as well. It meant no more crying sessions like the one Alfred had when Arthur had told him that he was straight, no Alfred pestering him in the middle of work for a distraction. As far as Matthew had gathered, he hadn't thought anything was wrong. Till today, that is.

"Yeah," Matthew finally said, after a long pause. "But I mean," now it was his turn to sigh, as he leaned backwards a little, to rest against the low armrest of the couch. "He hasn't actually said anything right? Anything to mean that he isn't you know, interested in you."

Alfred frowned, shaking his head slowly, as if mentally processing the events of the last two weeks. Watching him, Matthew absently wondered when it'd become _his_ turn to dispense relationship advice to his brother.

"Which probably means that he's still, well, on board with it right?"

A slow nod.

Matthew shrugged, biting his lip in concentration as well. He wasn't particularly experienced with this, obviously, but common sense never failed right? "So I guess, I mean, he probably still likes you. And would probably be okay with you holding his hand. But maybe you could, uhhh..." Matthew frowned thoughtfully, pondering the situation over. _Dammit this was much harder than Alfred made it look..._

"Maybe you should talk to him about it first. You know, if he's okay with it, hand-holding and stuff." He rubbed at the back of his head absently, fingers running through his hair. "Yeah?"

Alfred's face was scrunched up, as he looked down into the popcorn bowl settled in Matthew's lap, as if waiting for an answer to spontaneously spring out. Matt helped himself to more while waiting, watching Alfred's expression straighten itself out slowly.

"But," Alfred worried, "What if he says no?"

Matthew paused, considering. He hadn't actually thought about that. From all that Alfred had told him about Arthur, giving him blow-by-blow recounts of their date (some of which made Matthew want to squirm in the over-sharing of how utterly _sappy_ his brother could get), it hadn't seemed like a likely outcome. But still, he acknowledged, it possible.

"Then you don't hold his hand," Matthew decided.

"But-"

"D'you want to make him feel uncomfortable?"

"N-NO!" Alfred bit his lip again, and Matthew tried to recall the last time Alfred had been so worked up over another romantic interest, drawing an interesting blank. "I don't, duh," he clarified, eyes snapping to Matthew's after a moment, realizing what his twin had suggested.

Matthew half-smiled in reply, and grabbed the remote.

"So that's settled then," he said, turning back to face the screen. "Now can you please shut up?"

"B-But _Mattie_, how do I even-"

"Shh," Matthew murmured, mock-soothingly, as he shoved another handful of popcorn into Alfred's mouth.

* * *

><p>Alfred was ready for this. Like, <em>ready<em>-ready. He was completely and totally prepared for this, whatever _this_ might bring or entail, and he was completely confident in his ability to take whatever Arthur might throw at him in response.

Biting into his flake smugly, Alfred thought that the ice-cream tasted pretty damn sweet today.

_Like victory_, he thought to himself in pride at how _prepared_ he felt.

After his little consultation session with Matt, Alfred had set himself to planning The Date. The date in which he, Alfred F. Jones, would ask Arthur Kirkland if it would be okay to hold his hand.

_... Dammit it sounded a lot more awesome the first time I thought of it._

But still! The integrity of the plan would not be compromised, Alfred decided, brushing off the less-than-lackluster actual aim of the date, however childish it had sounded, phrased like that. He had spent the better part of the weekend thinking it through, running through how he was going to _make_ Arthur Kirkland hold his hand.

In some dusty, isolated corner of his mind, Alfred worried that he was getting a bit desperate.

But, he mentally defended himself, it had been totally understandable! Who'd ever heard of two people going out for _two whole weeks_ (three or four, if you counted their first not-really-dates!) without even hugging or getting a peck on the cheek or _holding hands_? It was bordering on absurd, in Alfred's book. But he got it that Arthur was a little more than a little uncertain about things between them, and he tried his best to understand. Still running on the happiness born of Arthur actually agreeing to go out with him, to test the waters and to try things out, Alfred thought that two weeks, perhaps, was enough time. He couldn't _help it,_ he threw out in a feeble attempt at a defense, in the debate room of his inner mind. Everyone who knew him knew that he _lived on_ touch. The small things like a pat on the back or a quick squeeze around the shoulders were staples of his daily life, only with certain exceptions like Francis, whom he tried not to touch at all costs (you never knew what it might lead to, the pervert), and Kiku, who wasn't really too keen on the whole touchy-feely thing. For the latter, Alfred dismissed it as cultural differences, which wasn't _at all_ an argument for Arthur, who was _British_, not Japanese. _And sure, they might be stodgy and uptight but dammit, holding hands should be okay right? Right?_

Alfred took another vicious bite out of his flake at the finality of his argument. It was foolproof. Not only foolproof, he thought happily, but _Arthur-proof _as well, which was the whole point.

Next to him, he could hear Arthur's soft laugh. They were on another tea-break date, in the middle of a small park on a Tuesday afternoon, flakes in hand and sitting on an old, wooden park bench. Their afternoon had passed by well enough, with light bickering (was raspberry sauce better or chocolate?) and amiable silence, watching kids in the distance, playing on a playground set.

"I thought you didn't like British food," he half-grinned, looking at Alfred's roughly bitten-into cone out of the corner of his eye.

Still with that crooked half-grin, Arthur turned to Alfred, looking away from the group of kids. Alfred looked right back, his mind temporarily freezing with the sheer sight of Arthur _smiling_ at him (_half-grinning, whatever_) in that completely unfairly charming way which Arthur himself never seemed to notice. There was a smudge of vanilla ice-cream on the corner of Arthur's lips, rounding up to border his upper lip, and Alfred was overcome with the sudden rushing urge to just lean over and wipe it off for him, to _touch_ that smile which seemed to be so rare and he was so completely _lucky_ to see it and _maybe we could do more than just wipe it off, maybe kiss it off and-_

_Dammit._

Alfred felt himself jolt back to reality, now with Arthur looking puzzlingly up at him, one eyebrow raised in confusion at Alfred's sudden change in expression.

"Alfred?"

Mentally cursing in his mind, Alfred looked away, feeling his face flush minutely. Dammit Arthur, he thought, slightly irate at how something like Arthur _eating ice-cream_ could make him lose his entire weekend's worth of plans. I've actually thought about this, he mentally cried, getting a little desperate at the slipping plans, before realizing that Arthur was still waiting for an answer.

"I- Er..." Alfred gave a little cough, his voice suddenly a lot hoarser than it had been a while ago. His mind scrambled for an answer. "I- It's not actually British-made ice-cream," Alfred choked out, eyes fixed at the playground in the distance. "So it's safe," he added, "And I won't, y'know, die choking from eating it unlike the rest of the British food out there- Ow!"

Arthur tried his best to hide his smile, as he coughed and whacked the back of Alfred's head with his free left hand. "Git," he said, and Alfred could almost hear the smile leaking out of his voice. "You deserved it, you ungrateful twat," he laughed, taking another lick out of his own cone, before continuing on his tirade of how Alfred _should be bloody grateful to the country which gave him his education and a job and a place to live, and not to criticize every single morsel of food which it produces._

Alfred listened, smiling absently at the speech, at the sound of Arthur's voice. The soft lit of his accent, with all of it's rounded vowels and the cant of his words, Alfred privately admitted to sometimes liking the way Arthur _sounded_ more than what he was actually saying. _Only sometimes though_, he defended. Anyone, Alfred thought to himself, would agree that British accents were totally sexy. He loved his own American accent, which was un-debatably awesome, but there was just something about British accents which were _bloody brilliant_, as they would say. Or perhaps, he absently thought, maybe it was just Arthur's voice. Even the way he called Alfred a _git, twat, sod,_ had become utterly _endearing_ and and-

_And fuck, I'm in pretty damn deep._

Alfred could feel his face colour again, and feeling like an elementary school boy, eyes still fixed forward, he resolutely thought to just _screw the plans_.

Swallowing hard, Alfred watched, out of the corner of his eye, as he inched his own hand sideways, as discreetly as he could manage.

_Three inches... Two inches... One and a half inches... One inch and..._

Trying not to look too guilty, he quickly slid his palm over Arthur's own, fingers curling around it slightly, feeling at side of his callused palm and-

Arthur suddenly stopped talking.

Alfred could feel Arthur's fingers flex ever so slightly under the weight of his own hand. "What are you doing?" Arthur asked, softer and hesitant.

Alfred tried his best to keep his voice steady, hoping it wouldn't crack or do anything embarrassing like that. "H-" His voice broke off a bit, cracking, and _dammit what kind of shitty luck do I have? _"Holding your hand."

He could feel Arthur pause, his fingers stilling for the briefest of moments, before moving again, this time pushing up at Alfred's. "A-Alfred, we're in- We can't do this here, I," Arthur stuttered, pulling his hand away, face coloured pink. "I mean, people will see us and-"

"And what?" Alfred frowned, finally looking at Arthur, gaze steeled and resolute. "The kids will laugh at us? And even if they do, so what?" He looked back down at his hand, resting against the aged wood of the seat, after Arthur had pulled away. "We've been going out for _two weeks_ and I just-" He could feel the minute anger and frustration at Arthur leaking out of him, leaving a mildly drained Alfred behind. He wasn't used to this, to tip-toeing around people just to _hold their hand_. And yet, he was doing it, because of this British man who liked to argue with him more than anything, who took about five hundred cups of tea a day, who smiled at Alfred in a crooked, half-there way which just made him want to see that smile _more_.

"I just want to hold your hand," Alfred finally said, looking back down into his lap, feeling all kinds of embarrased and awkward and needy and _god, maybe I should've just done what Matthew said and talked to him about it or something because this is just so awkward and Arthur is probably going to laugh or something because "I want to hold your hand", Al, _really_? Ugh this was a stupid-_

Arthur's hand came to rest on top of Alfred's own, startling him out of his thoughts. He looked down at them, startled, before looking back up to Arthur's face.

Arthur coughed, nervously, still incredibly pink in the face for something as mild hand holding, looking away.

"If you thought quoting a line from The Beatles would give you extra points, you were wrong."

He watched, a slow, silly smile spreading on his face, as Arthur's fingers hesitantly moved to twine with his own. His movements, Alfred noted, seemed to be hesitant, as his slightly cold, callused fingers rubbed against Alfred's larger palm, giving the slightest squeeze.

Alfred has to press his lips together hard, the edges still turning up of their own accord, to suppress the complete _triumph_ he felt. He looked back at Arthur, head still resolutely facing the playground, not at all looking at Alfred.

Alfred grinned, to no one in particular, looking back up at the playground as well. He took another lick of the ice-cream, and if possible, it tasted even sweeter than that first bite. He caught Arthur looking at him, out of the corner of his eye, and couldn't resist laughing out loud, basking in the moment.

"Well, you can't blame a guy for trying, right?" Alfred said, tilting his head back to face the clouded blue sky, still smiling.

* * *

><p>Alfred didn't quite stop smiling for the next two weeks either. He wasn't <em>just<em> allowed to go on dates with Arthur now, but to have some form of physical contact. It was a minor dream come true, even if Arthur would shy away in the presence of others. It was that which lead them to spend an increasing amount of time at each other's houses, with Arthur being more comfortable in private spaces, and Alfred just being happy wherever Arthur was happier.

A string of dinners and Friday-night dates followed the discovery, most of which occurred at Arthur's house, much to Alfred's chargin (he had a _way_ better TV than Arthur's old thing). Everything felt better, or at least it did to Alfred. With Arthur giving the okay for the occasional hand-holding and hug in private, Alfred's "touchy needs", as Matthew had coined it, were fulfilled. Work at Heartstrings was going smoothly, with just enough to do to keep him happily occupied, with enough time left over to pester Kiku and Matt on occasion.

It was, as Alfred thought, pretty damn perfect.

And this notion was simply reinforced by the fact that they were on Arthur's couch right then, on a Friday night, watching Transformers 2, with a bowl of popcorn next to them (Caramel, at Alfred's insistence). Alfred had his arm comfortably slung around Arthur's shoulders, who had accepted the sitting position with only token resistance, mumbling something incoherent, only to settle into it moments later.

Alfred's attention wandered from the movie slightly, at a lull in the action scene. He let his eyes wander the room, his left hand absently rubbing at the corner of the throw pillow. Strewn across Arthur's couch were a few throw pillows, each intricately embroidered with detailed floral designs, which were apparently hand-sewn ("Wow Arthur, I didn't know you were into this kind of thing! Where'd you buy them?" "B-Buy them? I'll have you know that these are hand-made! By- By my aunts!"). His apartment was a little sparser than Alfred would have expected, with the cream walls largely untouched, apart from a single tapestry of rolling green hills and a small cottage. Probably of the English countryside, Alfred thought to himself. It was a nice apartment, but unlike the one which Alfred shared with Matthew, it lacked that messy, lived-in look which Alfred thought had been synonymous with a home. Arthur still had a few un-packed boxes in his study, collecting dust on their surface. Still, Alfred wasn't about to complain. It had a couch, a TV, and _Arthur_. There wasn't anything to complain about.

He was drawn back to the movie by a sudden explosion, as he watched one of the robots completely demolish a building by colliding into it's side. Alfred watched, mildly transfixed by the incredible special effects of the movie, only to be disturbed by a sudden weight on his shoulder.

Tearing away his eyes from the screen (he could always rewind it anyway), he looked down, to find Arthur asleep, head rested against his shoulder, mouth slightly agape.

Alfred wanted to laugh at the sight. Only Arthur could fall asleep watching the awesome action parts of Transformers, he thought, the fondness inherent in it semi-startling him.

Over the past two or so months which Alfred had known Arthur, Alfred had found himself incredibly _drawn_ to the other man. There was no other word for it, he'd realized. "Attracted" didn't quite cover it, while "interested" seemed a little lacking for what they had. It was a large, messy combination of arguing over the merits of the digital age versus that of The Good Old Days, finding that they both liked Japanese food, and random, isolated moments like these where Alfred found himself perfectly content for more than a passing moment.

He watched Arthur nap for a few moments longer, the crashing explosions of the movie a faint background noise. Arthur's chest rose and dipped with every slow breath he took, Alfred noticed, as his face smoothened out in his sleep. Those eyebrows which dominated Arthur's face (which Alfred tried not to mention too often, after that first time) seemed less furrowed, the premature wrinkles at his eyes drawn smooth for once. He seemed, Alfred realized, far younger than he usually did. On most days, Arthur dressed up like the average businessman, with full two-piece suits and broad ties. Alfred hardly saw him out of it, except for rare occasions like these, where he "dressed down" in his own definition of the term, wearing plain shirts with a button open at the collar, paired with cardigans or sweatervests. It suddenly seemed like a special kind of privilege, to see Arthur unguarded and relaxed like this, in his own house, which Alfred felt a sudden new surge of happiness at, at the _trust _inherent in this situation.

Before he could properly consider the implications, Alfred felt himself lean down slightly to press the lightest kiss against Arthur's forehead.

The blond hair against his lips was dry, and yet Alfred pulled back hurriedly, flushed from the moment where he could feel the warmth of Arthur's forehead against his lips, more exhilarated from the touch than anything else. Cheeks pinking, he felt like the boy who had gotten away with stealing the entire cookie jar.

Out of the corner of his eye, Alfred looked back down at Arthur, as if half-suspecting him to wake up at any moment, protesting at Alfred's previous actions. And yet he didn't, Alfred was happy to note.

Suppressing a laugh at how utterly childish he got to be around Arthur, Alfred fixed his gaze resolutely back at the screen, grinning himself silly for the rest of the movie.

Matthew would lament at his lack of a lexicon (and excess of sap), but he really couldn't help but repeating the word in his head.

_Perfect._

It still sounded as good as the first time he'd thought it.

* * *

><p><span><strong>Authors' Note:<strong>

Hello again! Pure fluff is what this chapter was, hope you guys don't mind too much. All errors are my (Cass) responsibility, Hika played no part in them! Also, we have fanart from the lovely Amaru7227! Thank you so much for it, we love it! :D (We'll link it up in our profile ASAP!) Also, Hika should have another beautiful illustration for this chapter up at her DeviantArt right about now, so please go visit her as well! She's Glaceau at DA. (As an extra note, what they're wearing in that illustration is also what they were dressed in during that park scene!)

Thank you guys again for all of your overwhelming support and interest in Heartstrings! It's always awesome to know that Hika and I aren't the only ones liking this :D Also, if you guys are curious, we're right past the half-way mark now! If all goes smoothly, we should end at about 12 chapters, our side-character tangents non-withstanding.


	8. Too Sudden

**Too Sudden**

**Alfred F.: **meet me at sunflower plaza's lobby later? :) (4:03PM)

The puzzle arrived in the form of a text message in the middle of Arthur's afternoon cup of tea and a struggle with the junk mail in his work inbox (the junk mail filter _never _worked, it was a _blasted _lie that liked sending important mail from clients into the junk box filter, and letting boob-enhancement mails through instead), and provided a distraction from trying to figure out where the junk mail settings were in his mailbox (and the necessary humiliation which came from calling the tech support guy to actually come and fix it for him - or just bloody turn it off for once).

Arthur frowned, regarding Alfred's message warily. Sunflower Plaza? It was a building a stretch of a street away that he could get to in around ten minutes with his average walking speed, but as far as Arthur was concerned it was just yet another Office Building, and most certainly did not house a place for food in its confines. And yet Alfred was asking him to meet him there. Strange.

After some careful consideration, Arthur sent a reply back:

**Arthur K.:** ... For dinner? (4:09PM)  
><strong>Alfred F.: <strong>no lol unless you want my stock of twinkies in my drawer. just have something to show you before we go eat ;D (4:10PM)

Arthur raised an eyebrow at that. Huh. Why did that sound strangely ominous?

Nevertheless he shrugged, typed out a quick reply of affirmation, and put his phone back on the table. He could infer somehow from Alfred's reply that Sunflower Plaza obviously hosted the company that Alfred was working in. In other words, meet Alfred at his workplace before heading for dinner; that sounded fine in its own way, and Arthur was only slightly curious at the sudden deviation from their routine of simply picking the place for dinner and meeting there.

If anything, he returned slightly less frustrated to his inbox sorting out, and found himself at the entrance to Sunflower Plaza two hours or so later.

The building, despite its rather strange name, looked like any other building in the business district of Central London: grey, towering, and immensely boring in that modern sort of way, with a metallic glint to its facade and translucent green windows. Arthur checked his watch for the time. Six in the evening sharp. He was early today, since they usually met around thirty minutes past six instead; usually enough time for Arthur to tidy up the rest of his work before he made his way to whatever restaurant they were meeting at, knowing that Alfred would be late anyway.

It wasn't because he was looking forward to meeting Alfred again, Arthur argued with no one in particular, pushing through the revolving doors and getting a head-on blast of the air-conditioning of the building. He shivered involuntarily, wondering who in the world was in the right mind to have the air-conditioning on at what felt like sixteen degrees Celsius in the early summer, where the weather was on its own, already comfortable enough.

Arthur had to stop the next step he took into the lobby though, frowning as he regarded his surroundings warily. The lobby was wide and clean, with the characteristic high ceilings and plush couches that most lobbies boasted, but awkwardly enough, instead of the usual potted indoor plants, there were large, awkward looking sunflowers in each pot instead.

_Seriously?_

Only slightly put off at the awkward choice of decoration, Arthur made his way over to the reception. He was early, he might as well ask and see if the receptionist knew Alfred (somehow, Arthur had a feeling that Alfred wasn't the kind of employee that went around in an office building unnoticed by others - he didn't seem the kind that would _allow_ anyone to _not_ notice him). Could save him the time of coming down to fetch him and meet him at the company instead.

"Excuse me," Arthur started, stopping at the reception desk. The receptionist, a large man with a scarf awkwardly sitting atop his two-piece suit, smiled up at him questioningly.

_Was he that cold?_ Arthur mused, _Why they didn't just turn down the bloody air-conditioning instead?_ "I'm uh, looking for an Alfred F. Jones and was wondering if you'd know-"

Arthur froze in mid-sentence. Strange, because he had intuitively held back the rest of his question without really understanding why he did. The receptionist was still smiling back at him, but for some reason the smile was icy cold - _far_ colder than the air-conditioning of the building - and Arthur had a feeling that he was venturing into un-chartered territory if he asked anymore of that unfinished question.

"- Actually it's alright. I'll just uh, make myself comfortable over there and... Wait for... Yes." He trailed off uneasily, the side of his lips twitching into an awkward smile as he shuffled his feet over to the couches in the corner, settling himself next to one of the lobby's sunflowers (fake, he decided, after much scrutiny on his part, _thank god_ - he wouldn't know what to think if they were actually _real_) and decided that it made perfect sense for everything around the American to be strange.

Arthur crossed his arms, settling back into the slightly squishy comfort of the couch, throwing glances over his shoulder at the elevator doors visible through the petals of the sunflower every now and then, waiting for the owner of that always-loud voice to appear with that perpetually silly grin of his, possibly sauntering out of the elevator like the entire world belonged to him (knowing that if it refused, he'd just charm it back into submission). He scowled slightly at that thought - Alfred never realized it himself, but he had a way of walking with not a care in the entire world (all of which reflected his primal attitude towards life, Arthur concluded), eyes trained on everything and nothing at all, except when he was looking at Arthur every now and then, in his pauses of _waiting_, and then the intensity of his gaze would be way too much and-

_Stop right there._

Arthur threw a glance of distaste at his watch again. Was it not already time for dinner? What the hell was taking the git so long to just take a bloody elevator down? For as much as Arthur was concerned Alfred F. Jones most certainly did not seem like the type of person who would want to hang back around in the office after official working hours.

However, his thoughts were interrupted by a suddenly (dreadfully) familiar voice echoing in the lobby.

"- But that is not the point, Alfred, _mon cher_. What I have with _Matthieu_ is-"

"I don't need to know what you're doing with my _brother_, for fuck's sake. My _god_, Francis-"

"That's what he said," And Arthur could hear the clear smirk in the man's voice, accented by that same, _horribly_ familiar French, and while an undesirable image of a certain Frenchman he'd had the displeasure of meeting popped up, Arthur knew he couldn't be _that _unlucky. Francis was a common French name, he thought to himself, a sinking feeling in his stomach.

_I-It is. All those uncreative Frenchies have nothing better to name their sons and- And of course it couldn't be... _

He could hear gagging behind the wall of sunflowers, where the lifts were, which sounded remarkably like Alfred.

Still wary, Arthur attempted to peer through the huge leaves of the sunflowers (_bloody hell, they formed an actual wall_). In the spaces, Arthur could sight a pair of pale jeans worn with red converse sneakers, which he had grown increasingly familiar with. Alfred wore them everywhere with almost everything, and the stars-and-stripes laces were pretty damn unique in themselves. Next to him, someone had on dark, expensive looking slacks with dark brown loafers. A hand was poised at a jutted hip, just so that Arthur could see the man's lightly-tanned forearm and-

_Bloody hell. Bloody hell. Alfred knows Francis Bonnefoy._

Arthur resisted the urge to groan and sink into his couch. The man also had on an excessively garish watch, which Arthur could have recognized from a mile away. It was the standard silver of steel, but with the French flag painted onto the inside of the mantle. Arthur had seen it far too many times on the bedside table of his high school dorm, and had thrown it at the bloody frog enough times to know how much damage it could cause.

_Bloody perfect. Now Alfred has access to- To my _high school years _and-_

"So how is that little," A mock-discreet cough issued itself from Francis, "Surveyee fling you have going on, hm? I have heard you and Mathieu discuss it at times, yes?"

Arthur heard Alfred audibly choke at that. "W-What- You- He's not a fling!"

Arthur sat up a little straighter at this. A fling? Alfred was having a fling with someone? Was it him? What they had was a fling? What if it _wasn't _him? What if Alfred was going behind him with someone else? He could feel something thick and unpleasant rise in the back of his throat.

"Oho? So this... Arthur you two have been talking about- _Arthur_, Alfred, what a disgusting name, I once knew an Arthur and he was the biggest _rosbif _I have ever met, uncouth little boy who-"

"Ros-_whaaaat_? And he is _not_-"

Arthur felt himself flush, his muscles loosen slightly, where they had been unconsciously tense before, as he breathed a little more evenly. Equal parts embarrassed and relieved, _he_ being the fling, he supposed, was better than someone else, he thought.

"But this Arthur," Francis continued, "If he is not a fling, perhaps he is something," Arthur could just smell the lecherous pause and innuendo inherent in Francis' very being, "Something more? If so, Papa Francis would _have_ to be introduced to him, _non_? We could have so much _fun _together, the three of us~ Alfred have you ever heard of a _menage-a-_-"

"N-NO," Alfred choked out, at about the same time as Arthur could feel his throat and fists constricting similarly, the latter dying to wring around a certain fucking Frenchman's neck.

"We're not like that! W-We're- No you're right, it's just a quick fling and it's going to be over soon, we're not even that close!"

The tension which had ebbed out of him previously came rushing back with a vengeance, washing him in a wave of icy-cold which had nothing to do with the air-conditioning in the lobby. The words echoed in his head, sonorous and empty. _A quick fling. It's going to be over soon. Not even that close._

Arthur swallowed, hard.

"Ah," Francis murmured, with a tinge of disappointment. "I see. Well then, I suppose it can't be helped. I am meeting your brother now so I suppose I will see you in the office tomorrow? Good night, Alfred."

Arthur watched, motionless and pale, as Francis (_dammit, it really is the bastard_) walk out of the lobby's revolving doors, Alfred behind him, coming to stop at the end of the wall of sunflowers.

He turned around, face slightly pale himself, with a tinge of disgust, but brightened considerably when he saw Arthur there.

"O-OH! Hey! Arthur," Alfred grinned, walking towards the couches. "You're here! I-"

"No," Arthur bit out, mildly startled at how hard the single consonant sounded in his mouth. Alfred, he noticed, looked similarly taken aback. He wanted to ask an endless list of questions, formulated in the split second he'd heard what Alfred had said to that frog. Yet his body seemed against him, seizing up at the throat and lungs, making him short of breath and words. He found it in him to shake his head when Alfred started up again, eyes wide with surprise and concern.

"Arthur? Are you oka-"

"J-Just," Arthur could hear himself start, a step on what he thought was the right path. He had no idea what the second step entailed though, and he sat there, the coldness bleeding from his neck to his fingers, and he had no idea what to do.

"Arthur-"

"Not here."

On leaden legs, as far as the cliche went, Arthur felt himself stand up and walk to the same revolving doors, Alfred behind him, carefully trying to ignore the smile of the receptionist as they walked out.

"Have a nice night, da?"

* * *

><p>Alfred, sensing <em>something <em>for once, did not ask about where they'd be having dinner. They weren't eating as it seemed, mostly because Arthur's feet were not taking him down the street with the restaurants and pubs, but instead on the more familiar way back to his apartment. The journey home, despite the fact that Arthur had chosen to live relatively close to his workplace (the overwhelming rent required to live near Central London was a necessary price to pay), was a long one, painfully bleeding silence over each step they took - Arthur brisk-walking several steps ahead, Alfred trailing behind, unusually slow.

There were a few questions voiced by Alfred, but Arthur had been so resolute in keeping up his walking speed and _not_ looking at Alfred, they faded into a weak choke before Alfred had decided shut his mouth, obviously realizing that something had gone terribly wrong.

_Something had gone terribly wrong._ Arthur thought that over and over in his head as he fumbled to get the door to his apartment unlocked. The coldness from the lobby had followed him home, not warming up to the fact that he had just reached home in record time (though due to the laws of relativity, it didn't _feel_ like it did), and was now a sinking pit burning in the depths of his stomach, eating up his oxygen intake and making it feel as though breathing on its own wasn't going to be enough to sustain respiration anymore.

_Too sudden. _The voice inside him chanted. It happened all too sudden for him to grasp even the edges of _that thing_ that slipped past his barriers and left utter chaos and destruction in its wake. (_What was it though, really?_)

Arthur was terrified. The coldness in his stomach, the buzz in his ears, the still persistent echo of the conversation in the lobby like a repeating chorus in one of those horrid Techno songs youngsters liked to listen to nowadays (_-quick fling-over soon-not even that close-_); he felt like a train wreck in the making, each second passing with another excruciating hiss of metal-on-metal, too much friction and sparks where he had never needed it. He thought it to be an utterly foreign feeling, and he hated it, to be left without the ability to do anything about feeling inadequate and in the dark.

It wasn't the thought that Alfred had not been entirely serious and was planning on breaking up with him that scared him (oh but it _had_ scared him, thoroughly, grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him and rattled loose all his insecurities-), it was the fact that he was reacting like this - completely shaken and lost and cold and empty and with a tightening in his chest that he couldn't deal with at the moment - that scared him (_terrorized_ him) to no end.

_What in the world just happened?_ Arthur thought numbly, still shell-shocked, as he turned around to lock the door, feeling Alfred a hovering, overly concerned, worried presence behind him.

"Arthur-"

His fingers tightened on the doorhandle. "Surveyee fling?" He started, voice breaking from all the _coldcoldcold_ that emanated from his stomach.

Behind him he could feel Alfred deflate, what almost sounding like a whimper escaping his lips in a muttered "ohgodno-".

"So when were you intending on breaking the news that we'd be over soon?" He clenched at the doorknob again, surprisingly calm. (Like all the other times they had chosen to tell him that perhaps it should be over, just with a tighter clenching in his throat and windpipe, and a horrible coldness that he could only deal with by curling his fingers tight around the brass door handle of his door, as if he could transfer all of its whirling, swirling mass into the door if he held on tight enough-)

"Oh god, Arthur-" Alfred's hand came to rest on his shoulder, and Arthur fought the simultaneous urge to lean into it and flinch away from it all at once. "Look, it's really not what you think-"

"Well _what_ is it then!" Arthur had spun around, using that as an excuse to shrug the hand off his shoulder, immediately regretting letting go of the door. He faltered a little at the sight of Alfred, completely distraught, but the churning in his stomach refused to go away, a sickening echo of the one that hit just thirty minutes ago, behind a _bloody_ _sunflower._

"I wanted to tell you today!" Alfred sounded like a child who had his holiday plans completely ruined because he kicked a football through his neighbour's window. "That's why I called you over!"

"That you wanted to _break up_?"

"_No! _Not _that_ part!" Alfred let out an exasperated sigh, his hands hovering uncertainly around him, before giving up and burying themselves deep in the pockets of his jeans instead. "That- that I was the founder of Heartstrings!"

"You're the- _what!_" Arthur could feel the pieces of confusion within him pick themselves up, bumping into each other clumsily at first before finally slipping into a perfect fit. _Heartstrings_. That dating service they met through. He had almost forgotten, since he stopped using the application once Alfred and him exchanged numbers and switched to using text messages instead.

Something else clicked into place. _Surveyee fling_. So that was what those two words meant. If Alfred was the _founder_ of the bloody dating service he was using, then-

"S-so that was it?" Arthur missed the comfort of the brass door handle, but found no other reason to turn back to the door. Instead he stared pointedly at the doormat beneath his feet. "I was a bloody _survey_?" To prove _what_? That the dating service was superb and could indeed get someone as busy and antisocial and undesirable and Terrible At It All as _Arthur Kirkland_, into a relationship?

Arthur could feel the throbbing of his brain against his skull. No wonder it was all strange. At several points in time he had paused to consider the question (that most people would ask at certain stages of the relationship, that Arthur had never bothered to in his previous experiences) _Why Me?_ and returned with no feasible answer other than the fact that Alfred was a blithering idiot and an _American_ (who would thus, by association, mean one with very little sense). The fact that, somehow, he had managed to stumble upon a person (gender issues put to one side, one couldn't have _all_ the good things in life surely) who was so thoroughly _enamored_ with him, so ready to put up with him, so _happy_ to be with him for nothing in exchange startled him and confused him to the point where he had to force himself to stop thinking about it. Stop thinking about it before logic presented a reasonable argument that he knew he wouldn't want to hear.

And now it was all right in front of him. Falling into place. In his face. And Arthur cursed his stupidity and insecurity for not letting logic catch on in the first place. For not accepting that it _had_ been an impossible feat, and why in the world had he been so ready to believe in that improbable impossibility-

"_No!_" Alfred was saying something, Arthur realised, and dragged himself away from the whirlpool of thoughts waiting to drag him back below the surface again. "You weren't- I mean, _yes alright_, you _were_ a survey- I was supposed to talk to people about the system and then I got bored so I asked them out on dates but that's only how it _started_! All the previous dates were a one-time thing! I stopped asking them out after that!" Alfred had grabbed the sides of his arms, a desperate grapple for something, fingers clenching so hard into his flesh that Arthur had to grit down on his teeth, "You've got to believe me. I _swear_, by the third date I didn't even- I couldn't even be bothered to ask anymore about the application! You remember that don't you?"

Arthur regarded Alfred warily. It was true that Alfred had only asked about Heartstrings _once_ after the first time they met. Over a bowl of curry, wasn't it? The same day he realized that he had actually met Alfred through a dating service, that they had actually dated for four times already, that he was in _pretty deep shite_.

He swallowed again, bowing his head further down, back hunching over in a defensive curl-up that was proving to be rather awkward, with Alfred's grip on his arms preventing him from moving away too much. "But-"

"What I said. To Francis." Alfred continued, "T-that guy's just a huge perv! If I told him the truth he'd be all over you! It's better to just shrug him off and deny him the enjoyment of knowing that-That getting to you would be a fun way to get me bothered or something!" Alfred's voice dropped down to a rather pained whine, "I just... Don't want him touching you."

In any other situation Arthur would have snorted. The thought of _Francis Bonnefoy all over him _was a rather hilarious one, and in any other mood Arthur would have scoffed and assured Alfred that once Francis saw him he'd be more busy running away rather than trying to lay a finger on him. But yet now all he could do was stare pointedly at their feet, at Alfred's bright red converse shoes and his own loafers of black leather that were a little worn at the edges. His brain refused to think. His brain _needed_ to think. There was the same nothingness in his head that day when he had nodded to Alfred's proposal, but this one was accompanied with a much heavier, colder knot in his stomach. If anything though, the clenching in his chest seemed to loosen up slightly at Alfred's explanation, and Arthur wondered if that meant that he felt relieved.

He knew Francis Bonnefoy. He was the kind of man to do exactly what Alfred said (given that, of course, the person they were talking about was _not_ Arthur Kirkland) for the novelty and the pure _sake_ of fun. It was, he had to grudgingly admit, not a bad way of dealing with the bloody french bastard.

"Arthur?" There was no answer to that plea, and so Alfred tried again, "Arthur, look at me. _Please_."

Arthur heisitated. It was comfortable, just staring at the floor and pretending that he wouldn't need to speak or react to anything, that he didn't need to be _here_. Looking at Alfred and dealing with the matter at hand - with these... _Feelings_ that were so alien to him - was not at all comfortable. At all. He raised his eyes slightly, and Alfred's chin came in sight. His eyes darted up further, uncertainly meeting Alfred's red-rimmed, swimming eyes of blue. He looked like he was going to cry.

Arthur stared.

"It's not a fling. It's not going to end. And I... I proclaim that moment Opposite Minute! I-it's like Opposite Day but, you know, just a minute!"

_Pbft._

Against his better judgement, Arthur let his head tip forward, to knock against Alfred's shoulder. He had done so much against his logic and reasoning in the past two months, what was another small action?

"I hate you," He breathed, his eyes still trained on the contrast of their shoes.

He could feel Alfred still beneath him, barely breathing, as if in fear of startling him. Arthur let his eyes slip shut, and pretended that an immense, crazy amount of relief and half-formed tears weren't washing through him right then. He wasn't _meant_ to handle this, he thought to himself weakly. He was _Arthur Kirkland._ He wasn't built to go through these kinds of things, things which involved gushing amounts of feelings which were so utterly intangible and ephemeral and _frustrating_. He was Arthur Kirkland, the one with the best-fit curve on the graph of his life, and this singluar deviant data point was causing him to erase everything else on the damn paper, to change all of his well-thought-out facts and plans and patterns and this upheaval was _bloody painful_ and just too sudden and-

"Arthur?"

- And this stupid, sodding American _git_ had made him do that. Made him change everything all at once and for all the awkward adjustments he had to make with himself, he didn't regret it. Alfred had sounded fragile, tentative, and the strangest bit of breathless. Arthur could have sworn he hadn't breathed since his forehead touched his shoulder.

"What?" His voice caught, embarrassingly.

There was a pregnant pause, before a hand came up to rest at his back, bleeding warmth into him at that singular point, and god, Alfred must have been _doing_ something to him on the sly for the past few months, because Arthur had never come this close to sobbing this many times in a night. When Arthur didn't flinch, Alfred put another hand around him, pulling him closer into a hug.

"I-I'm sorry, Art- I didn't mean to- You were never-"

A breath.

"I'm sorry."

A thousand thoughts ran through Arthur's mind at those words. This was up to _him_ now. He had already been put through all that pain, all that self-doubt and hesitancy in the past months, and now, he had as easy of a break as he would get. Even with Alfred's hands around him, and with him leaning on his shoulder like this, he could end it. He could push away, open the door, and lock Alfred F. Jones out of his life forever, and go back to however he had been living before Alfred. He _could_, it was an option and a statistical probability.

_But I don't want to_, he realized.

Tentatively, pretending that his arms didn't feel like jelly, he returned the embrace and felt Alfred relax under him, with an audible sigh of relief.

He eventually pulled away, to lean with his back at his front door, Alfred's hand catching his as he moved back. He looked at those wide, naive, red-rimmed blue eyes, and he realized with belated surprise and awe, that this was _something._ He had no idea what it was, it felt too fragile to name or place, but it was something. Something real and tangible and different but _there_, between himself and Alfred, which he never had with anyone else. The thought of it startled him, with the same kind of mild shock that came when you realized that your books were yellowing with time and use and age, right under your very nose, and you were powerless to stop it.

And that you didn't want to stop it, because browning pages have a certain charm and _feel_ to them, and unnotably , over time, you had gotten quite used to having them around.

Arthur smiled as best as he could, trying not to show the huge emotional and mental storm passing through him, that very moment, and pulled at the brass handle of the door to let the both of them in.

* * *

><p><span><strong>Authors' Note:<strong>

So we're back to our usual program of co-writing! Thank you all for the lovely reviews and compliments once again :'D Please keep them coming! They brighten up our dreary mornings/afternoons/nights and make us want to write even more! Also, updates might be coming a tad slower for the next few chapters, as Hika's going back to school as well. So sorry about that, but we'llstill try our best, yes? Hope you enjoyed this chapter!


	9. Too Many People

**Too Many People**

Arthur absently rubbed at the smooth, black cover of his blackberry, and recrossed his legs.

He was back in Sunflower Plaza.

The air-conditioning was still as distinctly cold, the receptionist still as mysteriously cheerful ("Oh! Good evening! It's you again," he smiled. "I'm surprised. People who don't work here don't usually come back~"), and the sunflowers still as disturbingly bright and plastic. He was back here, in the exact same spot as the night before, shifting in his seat at the cold chill snaking down his back.

He shifted again, biting his lip in semi-nervousness.

Not that he was nervous, he told himself, sternly. Because nervous, Arthur thought, was an utter misrepresentation of his current situation. He wasn't nervous per-se, he thought stiffly. He just had... Little idea of what to do with himself, if he were to be perfectly honest.

The previous night had been an experience, to say the least. An experience which left Arthur more than a little shaken and shell-shocked. Despite the 'conflict' being solved, him and Alfred had sat in relatively awkward silence over two cups of tea with a rather awkward space between them on the couch last night, staring at everything else possible in the room rather than each other.

If it were not for Alfred's stomach that suddenly let out a ridiculously loud rumble, they would have probably sat like that for the entire evening. The awkwardness appeared to have been dispelled by hunger after that, the two of them deciding on ordering Chinese, and sank back into comfortable conversation that pointedly avoided the mention of anything that would remind them of what happened an hour ago.

Alfred left after dinner without his usual request for a goodbye hug, leaving Arthur to sit dumbly on his couch, fingering the cup of cold tea and _still_ not drinking it. He picked up the pieces of what was left of his self-concept, and realised that it wasn't as if he could put them back together again. No amount of superglue would work, he thought numbly, still trying to come to grips that he had chosen Alfred over his preferred way of life - easy, efficient, tangible, logical, and weakness-free - and how in the world he had come to that decision.

In the end, he grabbed a book off a shelf of his study and sent his brain to focus on better, less complicated issues.

The next morning Alfred's text message greeted him cheerfully:

**Alfred F. Jones: **so let's do this right tonight! ;) sunflower plaza, same time? i wanna show it to you for real! (07:05AM)

Arthur had fallen face first back into his pillow and groaned, desperately clutching at the edges of sleep and the veil of the story he read last night to sleep that were the only things that were preventing the emotions from yesterday from spilling into today.

Today, Arthur thought crossly to himself as he fought back another shudder from the chill in the lobby, Today he was going to Deal with it. He had dealt with it perfectly at work, the hum of the printers and his computer's CPU a comfortable massage for his tired brain, the endless flow of paperwork and spreadsheets to look through a most suitable distraction that he entertained happily, basking in the efficiency that came when he dealt with things like work and everything that had nothing to do with Alfred. Alfred, who was the anti-thesis of what Arthur's orderly life had been. Alfred who was-

"ARTIE!" Shouted Alfred, grinning as he rounded the wall of sunflowers, tucking his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. "You're here!" He prodded irritably at the sunflowers with his left elbow, making the green stalks waver the slightest bit. "Dammit, this wall really needs to come down," he muttered, shooting a dark look at the receptionist.

"I like it," chirped the large man, still smiling. Arthur felt another shiver roll down his spine.

"Don't call me Artie," he interjected belatedly, partially in genuine protest, while also with intent to diffuse the sudden tension he could feel rising between the two, as he stood up from his seat. Arthur craned his head over the yellow petals.

"Are you sure that French frog isn't here?"

"Who, Francis?"

The name made Arthur colour slightly (_goddamn frog can't even stay out of my life right_) in memory, before giving him pause. Arthur hadn't gotten around to telling Alfred about him knowing Francis prior to this, and honestly, he just hoped the whole thing would not come up. _Ever_. "Y-Yes. The one from," he bit his lip, hoping he sounded convincingly vague. "From yesterday."

"Oh, yeah," Alfred answered breezily. "He left a while ago, something about cooking dinner for Matt," He added, wrinkling his nose a little at the thought. Arthur inwardly snorted at the thought of Francis' cooking. Far too rich and horribly creamy, as if France suddenly had an excess of cows and milk and needed to use it all before it spoiled.

"Ah," Arthur murmured, his eye catching uneasily on the still-smiling receptionist. Good service and dedication to the job was one thing, he thought to himself, but this was quite another. "L-Let's get this over with, then," He said, walking towards the lifts, pulling at Alfred's sleeve.

* * *

><p>"TADA!" Crowed Alfred, throwing open the door to his personal office. Arthur would have found it that same mix of ridiculous and endearing, if not for the fact that it had happened a few times already, during his tour of the small set of offices, at the front door, printing room, meeting room, so on and so forth.<p>

Still, he privately admitted to himself, he was still plenty impressed.

The idea of Alfred actually being competent enough to run a company (with his brother, but still) had been so foreign, it had never even come up. But no matter how much he thought about it, the thought that Alfred was capable of running a company, albeit a small one, was very... Impressive.

He settled into one of the armchairs opposite Alfred's desk, looking out the large, ceiling-length glass windows, into a view of the the river Thames. Also an impressive view, he thought to himself absently. Alfred collapsed into the desk chair opposite him, still grinning proudly.

"It's not too nice or anything," he admitted, absently flipping through few sheets of loose paper on his desk.

"I really wanted to put a few posters up-Nice ones, of course-But Matt wouldn't let me," he pouted, crumpling a sheet of doodles up into a ball. "I wanted to get some of our beanbags here too but," Alfred paused in momentary concentration, as Arthur watched, amused, at how his tongue poked out slightly at the effort of focusing on something behind him, aiming the paper ball. Arthur turned around in his seat, chuckling at the sight of a miniature basketball hoop installed above a wastepaper basket, and the ball of paper successfully launched through it, landing neatly on the pile of paper balls in the bin.

"But I got Matt to agree to the hoop," Alfred laughed, smugly, and Arthur couldn't help but smile in response.

"So your brother, Matthew?" Arthur asked, turning back to Alfred, resting back in the comfortable black leather chair. Prior to this, Alfred had made mention of his brother multiple times, mostly in off-hand comments of housekeeping and dietary habits, but only during the tour did Alfred mention that he worked with his brother as well.

"He works with you right? Co-owner?"

"Yeap," Alfred replied, fiddling with his Macbook in front of him, eyes trained on the screen. "He does all the paperwork and the logistic-y, money related stuff to do with the company. I deal with the actual program itself, how it works and stuff like that, so I work with Kiku-I've mentioned him before, right? He's my ex-college roommate and he works for us as chief programmer now-figuring out what else we can do with Heartstrings, and how to improve it, things like that." Alfred stopped typing for a bit, to pull his iPad in digital-photo-frame-mode over, from the far end of the L-shaped desk. He unlocked it, and scrolled through a few photos before sliding the device over at Arthur.

Turning the iPad around to face him properly, Arthur glanced at the photo.

"That's Kiku there," Alfred pointed at a short, dark-haired Asian man, smiling shyly at the camera. "And next to him's Toris-He was in our programming class too, with this guy above him, the guy with the glasses. He's Eduard. And the guy next to me's Matt," he added, leaning a little further forward, shifting the iPad to point at Matthew with his finger, a steady fondness in his voice. "They're all pretty awesome," he said, smiling down at the picture. "I like to think of them as the real guys behind Heartstrings," Alfred added, laughing at the memory.

Before Arthur could ask what he meant, the door behind him clicked open.

"Al, you do know that- Oh!"

Turning around, Arthur was met with Matthew, standing in the doorway, next to the Kiku. As Arthur looked at Matthew, he could understand what Alfred had meant about the two of them getting mistaken for each other. Their features had the same feel, down to the curve of the jaw and the set of the nose and eyes, although their hair left them quite distinctly different. Kiku stood quietly next to him, eyes darting between Arthur and Alfred, before looking down instead, giving a small bow.

"I apologize for intruding, Alfred, I didn't know you had company," he murmured, just loud enough for all of them to hear, and shot a look at Matthew before politely taking his leave, smiling briefly at both Alfred and Arthur.

Matthew pushed up his glasses as he walked over, blinking embarrasedly at Arthur. "O-Oh. I- Eh, sorry, I didn't know that Alfred had company either," he laughed, awkwardly, stretching out a hand. "And don't worry about Kiku, he's just like that about new people sometimes. Sorry for being so rude, you're Arthur, right? It's nice to meet you, I'm Alfred's brother, Matthew."

Momentarily thrown at how different Matthew was from Alfred, Arthur stood up hurriedly and shook the proffered hand, eyes briefly searching the open door behind Matthew, for any sign of the Japanese man, before coming back to look at Matthew. "It's fine, really. It's very nice to meet you too, Matthew." Arthur paused momentarily, colouring up. "O-Oh, you of know me? Has Alfred mentioned me to you prior to this?"

Matthew laughed, slightly hollow, shooting a glance at Alfred. "Yeah, yeah he has- Only good things, don't worry," he supplied, catching the look on Arthur's face. "And anyway, I just came in to remind Al that he's alone for dinner tonight, that's all. But," he gave a little smile at Arthur, "I suppose he isn't anymore?"

Arthur blushed even further, averting his gaze and coughing nervously, not catching the abortive hand gestures Alfred was giving Matthew.

"But still, it's really nice to finally meet you," Matthew continued, walking backwards to the door, although still looking at Arthur. "Um, maybe you'd like to come over to our place for dinner sometime?" He offered.

Arthur felt that he would never get over how different a pair of twin brothers could be, as he nodded, his smile no longer forced out of politeness, but instead warm and put at ease by Matthew.

"Yes, sure, I'd really like that, ah..." Arthur trailed off embarrassedly.

"Matthew," the other man supplied, smiling in a way which made Arthur think that he was used to it. "And yeah, just let me know when?" He asked, looking at Alfred. "S-Sorry to leave so soon, but I'm kinda late and I'm sure you guys have your own thing to do yeah? It was nice meeting you again, Arthur," Matthew smiled, and closed the door behind him.

Arthur stared at the door after Matthew, a certain fondness bubbling up in his chest. Then, only after a moment's pause, he blinked rather confusedly. "What's his name again?"

"Matt, Arthur. Matthew." Alfred raised an eyebrow, but once more Arthur saw that slight tinge of resolution in the expression of amusement, as if Alfred too, like Matthew, was somehow used to this. How strange.

"Ah. Right. Nice chap." Arthur cleared his throat, firmly reprimanding his brain to remember the bloody name - his memory had never been this terrible before.

"So..." Alfred started, shuffling in his seat slightly. "What d'you want for dinner tonight? Oh, and we've gotta set a date for you to come over for dinner too!"

Arthur turned around, and realised that he had to make an effort to hold back a small smile (it had come so easily), "... I was thinking perhaps that Italian place down the street. As for dinner... I suppose I'll be free on Monday night."

* * *

><p>Memory loss hit again on Monday night, to Arthur's utter dismay. He had stood at the door faced with a smiling Matthew, his smile slightly awkward, a bag of tea and butter biscuits in his hands as a doorgift, and realised that - bloody hell - he forgot his name again.<p>

"Good evening." Arthur managed, as safe as greetings got.

"Mattie! Is that Arthur?"

Alfred, thank god, Arthur thought gratefully, forcing his brain to digest: Mattie - uh, Matt, Matthew - yes.

"For god's sake Alfred, take the frying pan back to the kitchen!" Matthew shouted back, before turning back to Arthur with an easy smile again. "Good evening to you too eh, do come on in." He stepped back, and Arthur pulled off his shoes and stepped into the hallway, holding up the paper bag in his hands with a cough,

"It's not much, just some flavoured tea and some biscuits. For the trouble of preparing a dinner."

"Oh! Don't worry, it's not as if there's much anyway! Just a few simple dishes." Matthew accepted the bag with a smile, "Thank you for this though."

Arthur trailed after Matthew down the hallway and into the living room, vaguely registering the smell of grease and hamburgers overwhelming any other scent in the air.

"Maaattiiieee-!" Alfred appeared, in a bright red apron and still waving a frying pan around despite Matthew's previous complaint. "I'm hungry! And Arthur's here! So we can eat now right? The burgers are ready."

"No we can't," Matthew replied simply, walking past Alfred and picking the frying pan out of his hands, heading to the kitchen to put down Arthur's gift and the greasy utensil. "We're still waiting for one more person."

"We are?" The surprise on Alfred's face mirrored the one on Arthur's. "Who?"

"Well, I thought since we were going to do this, I might as well invite-"

"BONSOIR~~"

"Ah, he's here," Matthew smiled demurely, oblivious to the look of disgust on Alfred's face at the realization of their extra dinner guest, and the utter horror on Arthur's.

It was an awkward moment as Francis looped his arm around Matthew's waist, pressing a kiss to his cheek, as he strode in through the unlocked door behind Arthur, with Alfred and Arthur staring at the Frenchman's unexpected presence, mouths slightly agape. Saying that this was a surprise would be a huge understatement.

Arthur was the first to find his voice.

"W-WHAT THE BLOODY-"

"Ah ah ah," Francis cut in, smirking and all too pleased for the situation, Arthur thought to himself, irritated. "_Non_, Arthur, where are your manners hm? As a guest in someone else's house too," he made a clicking noise with his tongue and Arthur resisted the urge to throttle the damn frog.

"What. Are. You. Doing. Here." Arthur seethed through clenched teeth, glaring at Francis.

"Mattie," Alfred started, "What the hell were you-"

"Wait," Matthew cut in, brows furrowed. "D-Do you two know each other? Francis?" He asked, looking towards the man beside him.

"Yes, _Mathieu_, we apparently do," Francis said, casting a quick glance at Arthur before looking away, as if disinclined to look at the other man for long periods of more than a brief moment. "I had suspected as much, from when you talked about this Arthur Kirkland man you said Alfred was dating. I had known of someone of the same name in high school, and after the talk of the _eyebrows_ and his atrociously _fickle_ behaviour-"

"DUDE, MATT. Oversharing much?" Cried Alfred, going scarlet, and Arthur matching him quite nicely.

Matthew waved him away dismissively, shooting Arthur an apologetic look.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Matthew questioned, still frowning.

Francis shrugged, giving Matthew's waist a quick squeeze before letting go. "I apologize, mon cherie, I didn't think it would be a problem."

The tension-filled pause after that statement, laden with the thickness of how _obvious_ there _was_ a problem indeed, played answer enough.

Arthur looked down at his shoes, still cross, but the awkwardness of the entire situation had seeped in effectively, and the gentlemanly part of him was starting to feel terribly apologetic for all the trouble (half-caused by him) he was creating. He had already been rather nervous coming for this dinner, to meet Matthew and all, and he most certainly did _not_ need the annoying shadow of Francis Bonnefoy, git extraordinare, hovering over him to make the night any worse. From his personal knowledge, any time the frog was present, things would never go terribly well for Arthur, which said very much about his high school life with the Frenchman. _But that's an entirely different kettle of fish,_ Arthur thought to himself sourly, _another kettle which hopefully, will never ever be opened again._

He glanced up at Francis, who seemed to be deep in a non-verbal conversation with Matthew right then, and Alfred who was awkwardly looking between Francis, Matthew, and Arthur all at once, clearly worried. Arthur felt his resolve against letting Francis anywhere near his life again, crumble ever so slightly.

He knew that he wasn't the only one who wanted this to work out well. Alfred was hoping just as much, if not even more. Arthur knew how close he and Matthew were, and how he desperately wanted his brother to like Arthur as well, and vice versa. This was important to Alfred, Arthur thought, his heart sinking slightly at knowing exactly what he should do. What he _had_ to do, he corrected himself, knowing that the French twat wouldn't do anything of the sort, knowing his ego.

Arthur gave a cursory cough, as all eyes turned back to him.

"I... Er, apologize for my outburst earlier," Arthur said, directed largely towards Matthew more than anyone else. "Yes, well, it is true that Francis and I have... Known each other," A snort, no doubt by Francis, "A few years back but er, we'll try our best to put that past us." The words felt foreign and strange on his tongue, and Arthur felt like a horrible living lie, eased slightly by how Matthew's face brightened considerably, softening in gratitiude, with Alfred releasing a held sigh beside him.

"Just for tonight," Arthur added, hastily, shooting a glare at Francis, who returned with a smirk. He never _ever_ wanted this to happen again, good god, _never_.

"N-No need to apologize," Matthew smiled, albeit slightly awkwardly, at Arthur. "I-I mean, I really should have found out about this earlier and I'm sorry that-"

Matthew's rambling was cut short by a very loud grumbling noise, and as everyone turned towards Alfred, he just raised his hands in surrender.

"Whaaaaaaat? Dinner was supposed to be like, half an hour ago, sue me."

Regardless of manners, or excuses for loud, empty stomachs, the half-smile that came to Arthur's face, and the twin chuckles hidden by both Francis and Matthew eased the tension just a little, as Matthew gestured towards the countertop behind him, with bowls of salad and plates of baked potatoes. For the first time since he had entered the apartment, Arthur noticed the buns laid out on a plate near the sink, and the burger patties still in the pan.

Turning back to look at Alfred, he watched as the other man raised an eyebrow, grinning, his forehead a little less crinkled, and features more smoothened out.

"So," Alfred rubbed his hands together, before moving to untie his red apron. "Dinner?"

* * *

><p>Dinner seemed to proceed without a hitch.<p>

Ten minutes into dinner, and Francis was already getting very bored. Things were proceeding as smoothly as things could go with Francis and Arthur in the same room, with a few off-hand snarks and glares, but nothing far beyond that that they weren't used to. He constantly caught Matthew giving Alfred worried looks, and that was the only thing which reined him in. As much as getting a rise out of Arthur was enjoyable, he supposed that not letting Matthew worry too much (as Matthew, he had found out, was wont to do) was of greater importance.

Under the table, Francis let his free hand squeeze lightly at Matthew's thigh, causing the other man to break off his slight frown to blush a little at the unrestrained contact. Matthew shot him a look over his wine glass, and Francis could only smile charmingly back.

Boring had never been his style, Matthew would forgive him in time, and as much as Arthur Kirkland irked him, riling him up was an interesting pasttime.

"More salad, Arthur?" Francis offered the wooden bowl, watching as Arthur looked over it at him warily.

Cautiously, as if expecting a trap in the salad itself, Arthur gingerly picked up the tongs to serve himself, keeping his eyes on Francis the whole time. Bowl returned to it's place on the table, and Francis having done more than smile charmingly at him, Arthur seemed to relax a little.

"... Thank you, Francis," his voice was stiff with the infamiliarity of cordiality and Francis in the same string of thought. However, as Francis was delighted to note, his guard seemed to let itself down, as Arthur went back to eating.

"So Arthur, how is Mr Darcy doing?"

As a confused silence built itself, with Matthew and Alfred looking at Francis confusedly, and Arthur glaring daggers at him, Francis relished in the ability to lure Arthur into false senses of security. It was one of the things he did best.

"Who's Mr Darcy?" Asked Alfred suspiciously, looking over at Arthur.

"N-No one, Alfred, Francis is just-" Spluttered Arthur, turning a nice shade of pink, as Francis was delighted to note.

"Have you been reading Pride and Prejudice, Arthur?" Matthew asked.

"What, that boring book that you were reading a while ago? Man, Arthur. I thought you were only into those boring literature-type books. Isn't Pride and Prejudice, like, the chick-lit of the classics or something-"

"Actually," cut in Francis, still smiling (and it was that smile which caused Arthur to glare at him even harder). "I was talking about Arthur's stuffed bear, which he had in college." He was pleased to note that Arthur's face was torn between shock and horror, as it seemed, with this supreme, all-encompassing anger close behind, and _ah_, wasn't that one of the most entertaining things in life, watching Arthur's pale, pasty face turn an interesting shade of red? "One of many, of course," he added, with relish. "You had that teddy bear collection, didn't you Ar-"

Francis laughed as Arthur threw a whole dinner roll at him, at the purple in his face, tinging the red. It was a beautiful, twisted kind of relationship they had, Francis thought to himself, or at least it had been that way in high school. Arthur apparently, had choosen to attend a French boarding school (something about brothers, Francis offhandedly remembered), where he had proceeded to meet Francis, and regret his decision after two weeks and three days. What happened in those two weeks and three days however, was something else completely. Yet that formed the basis of their mutual hate and loathing and constant one-upmanship of each other, and thus, the basis of their relationship. Apparently, Francis thought to himself mock-fondly, some things don't change with time.

"Do _not_ listen to that bloody git," Arthur hissed, jabbing his fork in Francis' general direction. It was practically an invitation to continue, he decided happily.

"Because the truth always hurts," Francis nodded sagely, chewing on a piece of lettuce. "But I always thought your teddy bear collection was a minor thing compared to your embroidering."

He watched as Alfred choked back a laugh, looking over at Arthur out of the corner of his eye, only to be met with another glare. "I thought you said those cushions you have were given to you by your aunts," he grinned, holding Arthur's glare with his laughing gaze.

"I-"

"And have you heard about his punk phase?" Francis asked, his glee only limited by the short slap he felt on his leg, courtesy of Matthew. He could almost the feel the penetrating glare directed at him.

This time, Alfred laughed outright, as Arthur dropped his cutlery and buried his face in his hands. He could hear Matthew groan beside him.

"You had a punk phase? Oh god, Arthur I did not think you had it in you to ever do something like that," Alfred laughed, rubbing at Arthur's back as the latter groaned out something that sounded a lot like _make it stop_. Francis caught the laughter still in Alfred's eye, as Alfred himself tried to stifle his amusement. "He wore eyeliner, if you're interested in knowing," Francis grinned, leaning over the table conspirationally.

"Eyeliner?" Alfred grinned, "For real?"

"Oh yes, there were tubes of brittle glitter and pots of eyeliner in the bathroom for ages, _dieu_," Francis leaned back, clucking his tongue at the memory. One pot had spilled into his face cream once, causing another string of revenge-driven pranks between the two of them.

"It was _atrocious_," Francis lamented, spearing his burger patty with a fork. "Utterly _disgusting_, honestly, Arthur, if you were hoping to distract people from looking at your unkempt eyebrows, you should have gone further than highlighting them to your eyes, _non_? Of course, your piercings were quite a sight for sore eyes-"

"Just like _your_ hair in sophmore year, frog," Arthur spat, momentarily recovered from embarrassment, looking up to glare at Francis.

"What happened to his hair?" Matthew asked, cautiously, almost as if wary of joining in the seemingly unstoppable walk down memory lane Francis had started all of them on.

"Cut himself a bald patch," grinned Arthur, the pink still tinting his cheeks, but that same rush of pleasure at revealing the embarrassing incidents of Francis' life (which were few and far between, Francis thought to himself) colouring his voice. "The sod spent a week bragging about how he was going to have the latest Parisian styles, but a cockroach in the bathroom scared him witless, and he ended up cutting himself a bald patch instead."

Matthew gave Francis an apolgetic look as he helplessly dissolved into laughter, as Francis himself could feel himself colour up at the memory. He took great pride in how he looked and that- _That was just a single horrible accident, trust that rosbif to bring such an incident up._

"At least I'm not desperate enough to get my roommate drunk just to-"

"That," Arthur cut in, equal parts of shock and horror leaking through his gritted teeth, "Is. Off-limits."

Alfred seemed to perk up at the idea of a skeleton in the closet. "What _did_ you do to him, Artie?"

"_Nothing_, he-"

"He got me drunk at a party, hauled me back to our room to- What do you call it? Make out?"

"W-Wha- WE MOST CERTAINLY DID NOT-"

Still pleasantly buzzed by his successful jab at Arthur, Francis, an observant man, was mildly surprised to note the sudden change in expressions of two of his three dinner partners. Alfred, startled out of his previous gleeful anticipation of the secret, drew back visibly, his expression tightening, as he looked back down at his plate. A quick look at Francis, then Arthur, but Alfred's gaze returned to his half-finished burger, still curiously drawn and, Francis interestingly noted, _jealous_. Arthur, on the other hand, maintained his horrified, glaring look (as he usually did when these little competitions started, Francis fondly recalled). He watched as Arthur's gaze darted to Alfred and back to glaring at Francis, not with a tinge of what seemed to be worry.

_What an interesting development._

Considering all of the above, Francis kept his silence after that, obediently letting Matthew smack him over the head, before returning to his own meal.

Dinner afterwards, proceeded without a(nother) hitch.

(For real this time.)

* * *

><p>"So," Alfred blurted out in the middle of a relatively normal conversation after they threw away the plastic containers of curry, savoring the beginnings of a food coma on Arthur's couch. "You made these?" He held up one of the cushions on the couch, grinning like a middle schooler as he waved it in the air in front of Arthur's nose.<p>

Arthur groaned. He had been waiting for it for the whole night, wondering if perhaps Alfred would have somehow miraculously hit his head on something, and lose his memory of that terrible dinner on Monday night in the process. Everything had gone well for the first half of that night, the two of them enjoying a leisurely walk back to Arthur's apartment before deciding to order curry, Alfred telling Arthur about his latest findings by reading random tweets on Twitter (and very amused that Arthur had no idea how Twitter worked) over dinner. For a moment, Arthur was very ready to believe that perhaps whatever the frog had said four nights ago wouldn't come up.

"Wow, it's like Francis said," Alfred's grin stayed plastered to his face, running a finger along the embroidered patterns on the cushion, "Kinda hard to believe you're not gay- Oomph!"

Arthur growled, having thrown the nearest cushion at Alfred's face. "It's just a hobby! It doesn't mean anything!"

"Other than the obvious feminine connotations of said hobby?" Alfred beamed widely at Arthur, "So, do I get to see the teddy bears too? _Whoa _don't hit me!" He held up the cushion he had in his hands up as a shield, blocking Arthur's half-hearted punch. He peeked out from behind the cushion, "... Also, _punk_ phase? Seriously?"

Arthur coloured under Alfred's rather intent gaze, clearing his throat whilst shifting his weight rather awkwardly on the couch, scooting a little towards the other end, away from Alfred. "-I... I was _young._" He explained, as if that one word would somehow encompass all embarrassment, "I-I mean, surely all youngsters would do something silly back in those days."

"Hmmmm," Alfred started, hugging the cushion as he stared Arthur down, eyes seemingly scanning a mental image of him before they paused, bearing down in deep concentration. Arthur thought he could almost hear the processor in Alfred's head whirring as the program ran one of those algorithms that was supposed to mathematically recreate his face from nine years ago. And possibly redressing him too, as disturbing as that sounded.

Arthur tried not to look too uncomfortable, scowling back at Alfred instead, _daring_ him to laugh. His left ear was suddenly strangely tingly, as though the piercing holes that had long closed and disappeared were back again, just for those few minutes.

"I dunno." He decided finally, eyes darting away from Arthur's face, cheeks flushing a rather bright red. "I think it's pretty hot."

Arthur stared at Alfred in shock. "You- you _what_?" It was only then did he realise that his ears were feeling cold at the tips, probably because they were burning hot right now.

"I think it's pretty hot!" Alfred managed to repeat it, twice as loud, without stumbling. The colour of his face said otherwise about his current state of composure. "I-I mean, well, look at you now. Just... knowing that you had those years is kinda... you know, kinky in a way." Arthur spluttered at that. _Kinky?_ Out of all words possible? Was the git being serious about this? Alfred continued, like someone rolling down a hill who couldn't stop himself. "And the teddy bears or embroidered cushions are kinda cute. I mean, I kinda thought you were the epitome of the stoic manly male chauvinist but these are uh," Alfred's lips twitched upwards slightly as he threw a sideways glance at the cushion - now abandoned - next to him (primrose), "Sweet?"

Arthur gaped wordlessly at Alfred. He wanted no less than to shake him by the shoulders and cuff him repeatedly over the head for being so utterly rude and cheesy and _embarrassing_ all at the same time, but his body refused to budge, and Arthur could only sit there, hating himself for being a rather brightly red coloured goldfish.

"I... I think I like knowing about you, Artie." Alfred looked sheepish but at the same time so earnest and sincere that Arthur forgot to complain about that stupid nickname. Alfred was also moving rather close, Arthur thought to himself, as he shifted discreetly backwards until the armrest hit his back and prevented further escape. "... That nasty bit about you and Francis put to one side." Alfred's face darkened considerably at that, and Arthur found himself choking,

"It- I didn't- We- _I_ was bloody _drunk _and I don't even-"

"Yeah. Yeah, I know," Alfred finished for him, pouting slightly, "I just can't get over the fact that, you know, he got there before me."

"Got _there_-" Oh. _Oh christ_. He was really close now. Bloody hell.

"Artie," Alfred said, but it was barely a whisper now, and Arthur realised that he could see the flutter of Alfred's eyelashes as he blinked, the edge of his tongue as it darted out so quickly to li ck his lips, the movement of his throat when he swallowed-

Oh. Oh. _Oh._

Arthur's hand clutched at the side of the armrest, fingers digging into the velvet covering. This was- This couldn't be-

Arthur squeezed his eyes shut, and realised - in pure panic of the moment - that he could feel Alfred's breath against his lips, and _bollocks_ seriously _now_? Whatever happened to getting ready-

_Brrriiiiiinggg!_

Arthur jumped, Alfred jerked up and moved so quickly away to the other side of the couch Arthur doubted his eyes.

"Uh." He said, dumbly. "Phone." Then, added helpfully, "I should get it."

Alfred nodded, looking equally stupefied.

Reaching for the receiver blindly, not knowing exactly where to look, Arthur held it against his ear. His head felt like his brain had been replaced with a helium balloon. "H-hello."

"Why Arthur! Good evening to you!"

Arthur froze. Alfred was shooting him a look of concern, possibly because the blood had suddenly drained from his face.

"Aunt Rose," Arthur managed to bite out. "What a pleasant surprise."

"Oh we intended on doing just that!"

Arthur closed his eyes in silent prayer. _Please say that you're not in London. Please say that you're not in London. Please-_

"We just arrived in London this evening!"

_Aaahh bloody hell._

"T-That's nice but Aunt Rose, but I, er, really can't afford to er, get out of the house right now and-" Arthur heard some rustling and changing of hands at the other end of the line, something that sounded like _oh for heaven's sake, Rose, just let me_, before the line went dead.

A quick wave of relief washed over Arthur. _Perhaps_, he thought quite desperately, _they wouldn't call back. Or bother doing something as ridiculous as coming over without telling_-

"ARTHUR KIRKLAND," A voice bellowed, muffled, but still audible, from the front door down the hallway. Muffled, Arthur thought, heart dropping, but most definitely not muffled enough for him to _not_ recognize that the voice was very obviously Aunt Daisy.

"OPEN UP BEFORE WE KNOCK THIS DOOR DOWN RIGHT THIS INSTANT, YOUNG MAN. WE HAVE COME ALL THE WAY FROM SCOTLAND TO SEE YOU, AND WE WILL NOT BE THROWN OFF BY YOU TELLING US THAT YOU HAVE WORK TO DO OR ANY SUCH NONSENSE. WE ARE NOT FOOLS, ARTHUR, AND I WANT TO COLLECT THE EARNINGS FROM MY NEXT BET SO IF YOU DO NOT COME OPEN THE DOOR THIS INSTANT, I WILL-"

Arthur nearly fell over himself, tripping over the edge of the rug and skidding down the hallway faster than he could ever remember himself moving before. He had doubted the strength behind his aunts words before, and as he had told himself that faithful day, _never again_.

He threw the door open, desperate to just get Aunt Daisy to stop shouting. He was fairly well-received in the building, and he was keen on keeping it that way.

"WILL YOU ALL-" He caught himself half-shout, bringing his voice down to a hiss instead, looking furtively up and down the hall. "_Will you all stop sodding shouting?_" Arthur grabbed both Rose and Daisy by the elbows, pulling them in a little rougher than was probably appropriate for a pair of sixty year-olds, but inwardly, Arthur knew they could handle it.

He hauled the two of them into the hallway of his apartment, complaining and attempting to swat Arthur over the head for the manhandling, as Aunt Violet trotted in neatly behind them, closing the door with a click.

It was the click which realized that he'd just pulled the three of them into his house. His house, he was horrified to realize, which currently had _Alfred _in it. Pale-faced and panicking, he moved to swivel the three of them to have their back facing the living room-end of the hallway instead, looking confusedly at Arthur, with his own back to the door.

His hand clutched at that same faithful doorknob once again, and tried to regain an even breathing pattern once more. He felt trapped, in so many different ways it was hardly funny anymore.

"Arthur, what are you playing at?" Asked Rose suspiciously, dusting off her floral-print sleeve.

"W-W-Wha..." Arthur felt himself lost for words. He was never that good at that this kind of thing. It was the fundemental reason as to why he didn't often break the rules; he never knew _how_ to get out of punishment, lest he get caught (which happened a lot, he learned).

"W-What... What are _you_ playing at?" He blurted, pointing an accusatory finger at the three of them. "Coming all the way over here, and you didn't even have the courtesy to tell me in advance! W-What if I had been out or- Or at work?

They blinked in response.

"Don't be silly, Arthur, we knew you wouldn't be out on a Saturday night," Rose said dismissively, frowning at the finger pointed at her. Violet moved to gently push the hand (_trembling, goddammit_) back to Arthur's side, patting at it.

"It's not nice to point either, dear," Aunt Violet added, smiling.

Arthur wanted to let the dull ache of his head banging against the door drown everything else out, as he often wanted to do, in the company of his aunts.

"Before we get to anything else, about the bet," Daisy started, briskly, as she moved to turn to the living room. Startled, Arthur shouted out, desperate to stop her.

"W-WAIT!"

Aunt Daisy paused, and set her grey eyes on Arthur, hand half-poised to hold her back, gaze appraising.

"Arthur," Aunt Daisy started cooly, folding her arms in front of her. "What are you hiding?"

"Nothing!" Arthur blurted out, a tad too fast to be coinvincing. Three pairs of eyes bore up at him (no matter what the height difference, Arthur realized, half-miserable, he would _never_ stop getting intimidated by his three aunts when they looked at him like _that_), and Arthur could feel something inside of him shrivel. He wasn't ready for this, bloody hell, he wasn't ready for _any_ of this, and it was all coming in far too fast and all at once and-

And he had to say something, he realized, before his aunts got even more suspicious.

"I-" Arthur croaked, trying to find his voice. "I just wanted to know what the bet was, that's all," he stated, as calmly and unsuspiciously as he possibly could, trying not to be too obvious at trying to look down the hallway to see if Alfred had (for once) stayed put.

Aunt Rose frowned at him.

"Well, after our last bet, we decided that there could only be a few options-"

Aunt Rose's explanation was cut off by a loud, crashing sound, as a human body hit the carpeted floor with a thump, and Arthur, caving into the need to cover his eyes in utter hopelessness at how horrible the situation was, knew _exactly_ who it was.

The three aunts whipped around (people at age sixty-odd should not have reflexes that quick, Arthur thought sourly), to be greeted by the sight of one sprawled out Alfred F. Jones, arm bent beneath him in an attempt to break his fall, legs somehow caught in the armrest of the sofa.

A nervous chuckle.

"Hi?"

There was a long, awkward pause, in which Arthur seriously contemplated just walking out of his own apartment, taking a cup of tea at the cafe down the road and fancying the idea of coming back to an empty apartment, or perhaps waking up, half-off his bed and sweating at a bad dream. Alas, this was not the case.

Aunt Violet was the first to break the silence, as she looked at both Rose and Daisy in turn, smug.

"Twenty pounds each, dear sisters," she smiled, voice sugar sweet.

* * *

><p>"Oh <em>Alfred<em>, darling, you're so sweet!"

The bubbling of the kettle didn't manage to drown out the wild chortles and rather high pitched giggles (_Giggling? Seriously? At this age?_) coming from the living room as Alfred's voice sounded again, ridiculously at ease and completely cheerful, moving on to his next topic of conversation choice.

_What the hell was happening?_ Arthur thought to himself grudgingly as he waited for the water to boil, cleaning out his special tea set meant for guests. Not that he _had _many guests other than his aunts who had the habit of popping down to his house for a cup of tea every now and then. Arthur couldn't really decide if he preferred to have dinner with them and risk public embarrassment, or at home where they apparently were even _less_ concerned about how they spoke about things, and invaded any inch of personal space Arthur thought he had.

It had started off completely awkward, the beginnings of a migraine throbbing loudly in Arthur's head as Rose and Daisy both pulled out their purses resignedly, fishing out a twenty and handing it over to Violet. Alfred was shooting beams of question marks at him, and as much as Arthur wanted to answer his questions, he found it rather difficult to open his mouth and tell Alfred about how his aunts bet money on his life (and most recently, his love life) as a pasttime.

Money dealt with, the three of them then turned to Alfred, each with a different look of scrutiny on their faces; Violet smiling rather mildly at him as her eyes flickered from his face to the rest of his body (still awkwardly upside down on the couch), Daisy scowling with a slight eye twitch as she stared him down the bridge of her nose, and Rose, who was only short of rubbing her hands in glee, eyes sparkling in complete and total mischief. Arthur recognized all three looks, and decided that he needed to get Alfred out of his apartment. _Now_. For _his_ safety.

"So uh, he was actually... Just about to leave." Arthur cleared his throat and glared at Alfred when the American gave him a wide-eyed look of confusion. _Oh for god's sake read the atmosphere for once and realise that this is for your sake!_

Rose wasn't ready to let them off that easily though. "You had a friend over!" She beamed happily at Alfred. 'Friend', of course, was said with a slight intonation. "And how rude of you to not even introduce him to us first!"

Arthur tried not to groan. "I don't need to introduce him, he's-"

And then Alfred was off the couch, dusting himself off and straightening the edges of his t-shirt (not that it did much good to the rather rumpled top), "Hi." He grinned. "I'm Alfred."

It took everything in Arthur to not slap his face with his hand at that moment. He shot Alfred a look that the blonde returned with wide eyes and an innocent smile, extending his hand,

"Pleased to meet you, uhm."

"Rose." The slightly plump woman smiled and took his hand, shaking it firmly.

"Aunt Rose," Alfred flashed that ridiculous winning smile of his, blue eyes shining with a completely sincerity that Arthur could not comprehend, "I was wondering if I've met you before, you look like a classmate of mine."

"Oh psh," Rose snorted, waving Alfred's hand away, but looking slightly flattered. "Flattery will get you no where, young man."

"Aw, damn. I thought that one was pretty smooth." Alfred scratched the back of his head sheepishly, and turned to Violet with his hand extended, "And uhm...? I'm going to have to blame Arthur for this. He has never told me about the three of you."

"Violet Kirkland," Violet smiled, "And neither has he told us about you."

"Ohh me. I'm a new person." Alfred waved it off, ignoring Arthur's rather terrified look sent his way, turning to Daisy next, completely unfazed by the scowl she was regarding him with. "Nice to meet you."

"How far have you gone with Arthur?"

"Aunt Daisy!" Arthur spluttered out in horror.

"Be quiet Arthur! This is a very important question!" Daisy huffed, turning back to Alfred, grey eyes flashing, "So? How far have the two of you gone? Do you use a condom? I would have you know that safe sex between two males is most important, because the risks-"

"Oh Daisy! Don't be so crude!" Violet had jumped in, but it was too late. The damage had been done.

Arthur's protest was a choked out chain of incoherant syllables that refused to form words. Even Alfred, who was obviously trying to maintain his composure, turned a rather strange shade of pink that made the glint in Aunt Rose's eyes sharper.

"W-we're not like that." Alfred managed weakly, "Uhm, there's really no need to worry about-"

"Who plays catcher?"

A pause, as Violet and Rose both let out simultaneous "ohh"s at Daisy's new question, immediately considering the various possibilities and their probability.

"I'm going to go make tea." Arthur announced, and escaped into the kitchen, not daring to double-check for Alfred's reaction to his retreat to temporary sanctuary. If he couldn't chase them away, at least he could take cover, and then make himself feel better by plotting to poison their tea. (Not that he _could_, but at least the thought of it would make him feel a little more comforted.)

He had probably missed out a crucial point in the conversation whilst filling the kettle with water from the tap, because the next moment all he could hear was happy laughter coming from the living room, all three aunts a-chatter, as if the person they were talking to was not the apparently-gay-possible-partner of their nephew they just met ten minutes ago. But their nephew instead. And a favourite one, too.

"The hell." Arthur mumbled under his breath in disbelief, holding back the temptation to stick his head out into the living room to make sure that the people sitting there were _still_ the three aunts he knew. He spooned a few teaspoons of tea into the teapot before pouring in the boiling water from the kettle. Who the hell was Alfred? What type of magic did he just use? Did he just _tame_ his aunts?

"Hey Arthur!" Alfred called out cheerfully by the time Arthur finally pulled out enough courage to re-enter the living room with a tray of teacups, "You were so cute when you were six!" He was waving around something in the air. Arthur squinted. It looked like a small square of slightly yellowed, glossy paper. It looked like-

Arthur was horrified. "You did not just-"

"Aunt Violet was just showing me the photos she kept in her wallet." Alfred grinned happily, before pointing at the photos, "Your eyebrows took up like, half your face back then!"

Arthur's head snapped around to gape at Violet in muted shock and horror, but this only resulted in his aunt bursting into childish giggles.

"Ohh if you're interested we have an entire album at home!" Rose beamed, ignoring Arthur's protests. "Aaaall the baby photos back when he was still an adorable child who went around tugging at our dresses begging to be hugged."

"What- I never-"

"And a piece of his umbilical cord." Daisy added, then turned to Arthur with a disapproving frown, "What are you doing standing there like an idiot! Put the tray down before you shatter all those cups and put good tea to waste."

"Why in the _world_ would he need to know about my bloody umbilical-" Arthur looked down at the tray, the golden liquid in the cups threatening to spill over because his hands were shaking, and hastily put it down on the tea-table. His aunts, pointedly ignoring his apparent state of striken horror, each helped themselves to a cup of tea.

Arthur turned to look at Alfred instead, eyes beseechingly hoping that at least Alfred would attempt to talk some sense into the rather absurd situation. But the _bloody git_ turned away to whistle innocently, waving what looked like _another_ photo at him instead. "So tell me about that time he tried to... what was it again?"

"Make a potion believing that it would turn his brothers into green rabbits?" Rose suggested helpfully.

"Or when he tried to have a tea party with the fairies on a night with a fullmoon." Violet added.

"Or we could just show him the photos from that time when Violet put him in a dress." Daisy deadpanned.

Alfred was cackling like a maniac by then.

It was only then Arthur realised that he had been sold. By his aunts to Alfred. And by Alfred to his aunts. And now he was alone, one man against the four of them all at once.

His migraine throbbed harder.

The cup of tea in his hands his only comrade in a battle fated to be lost, Arthur found himself uncomfortably sat on the edge of the sofa, watching his aunts take turns divulging childhood stories he had no memory of to an enthusiastic and supportive Alfred. He had made several retreats - a few to the bathroom, another back to the kitchen to refill the empty cups with more tea - hoping that by the time he returned his aunts would decide to leave, but each attempt was futile.

By nine in the evening, Arthur was starting to worry that his aunts were intending on spending the night in his living room with Alfred.

Thankfully, after ten more painful minutes of idle chatter that Alfred didn't seem to tire from, Rose finally cleared her throat and stood up. "Well, it is late, and we should be leaving the two lovebirds to their own business."

"I hope we didn't intrude on anything," Violet seemed genuinely apologetic (but it was _all too late, _Arthur thought with a vengeance), "Afterall it _is_ your saturday night together."

"Use a condom!" Daisy chided.

"Oh for christ's sake!" Arthur bolted up, his lower back creaking as he did, herding his three aunts to the door, thankful that they were finally leaving and hoping that they would make the goodbyes as quick and painless as possible. And if it meant that he had to manually shove them out through his door, he was going to do it.

"Oh we get the picture Arthur, don't be so impatient! You two can have your quality time in a minute! Toodles, Alfred dear!" Rose turned around to wave at Alfred, but let Arthur usher them out down the hallway instead. "Oh darling," she dropped her voice down to a whisper as Arthur tried everything in his power to not just open the door and kick the three old ladies out, "You know you could've told us. He's such a sweetie!"

"T-that's not the point, Aunt Rose. Alfred and I, we aren't-"

"Don't worry, we won't tell your parents until you give us the signal."

Arthur groaned. That was _still_ not the point, but it was still a valid one that Arthur found himself unfortunately thankful for, and resisted the urge to retort just in case Aunt Rose changed her mind on that favour.

Violet patted him on the side of his arm, smiling up at him sweetly, "We're happy for you, Arthur. I'm glad you found someone."

"Who could put up with you," Daisy added, sniffing slightly, "It's almost a _waste_ to have a boy like that spent on you."

Arthur felt slightly indignance at the back of his throat at that, unconsciously straightening his back. "Well good night to the three of you. Do have a safe journey home." He could barely find the energy to open the door and step to one side as the three of them filed out, one by one. "And the next time you come, _call_ first."

"Oh but we did didn't we?"

Arthur shut the door before Rose could continue, leaning his forehead against it and letting out the sigh that he had kept bottled in for the previous two hours.

"HAVE FUN. BUT REMEMBER, SAFE SEX-"

"GOOD NIGHT TO YOU TOO, AUNT DAISY." Arthur shouted through the door, knocking his head against the wooden surface, his eyes squeezed shut in silent prayer. Thankfully, all he could hear through the thick maghogany were their footsteps and muffled chatter fading off into silence.

Arthur dragged his feet back to the couch, collapsing onto it and burying his face in his palms. That did not just happen.

Alfred poked him in the ankle with his foot. "Nice aunts you have."

Arthur groaned.

"Aw c'mon," The foot was persistent in its pokes, "It wasn't _that_ bad was it?"

"Says you." Arthur said, muffled by his hands, "Traitor."

Alfred cackled next to him. "I dunno. It was kinda cool. Hearing about the you I never got to meet. _Fairies_ though, Arthur? You sure you not gay?"

"Shut up." Arthur threw his arm in the general direction of Alfred half-heartedly. The back of his hand thumped against Alfred's shoulder. It wasn't fair, he complained to himself, that Alfred got to know every single embarrassing thing about him now, and he knew nothing about Alfred in exchange.

Alfred only laughed and threw an arm carelessly around his shoulders, tugging him closer so he was tucked between said arm and Alfred's chest, with Alfred's cheek nuzzling against the top of his head. "I'm kidding. You're pretty damned straight, embroidery and teddy bears and fairies put to one side. Yep. Possibly one of the straightest guys I've met. Feminine interests put to one si-_oomph_!" Doubling over at the elbow that landed in his gut, Alfred only chortled some more.

"You can stop rubbing it in, you insufferable sod." Arthur grumbled, further shamed by the fact that his face was colouring at a terribly fast rate. "And repeating that one point over and over again."

"So, d'you knit too?"

This time, Alfred was ready, a cushion blocking Arthur's elbow before it hit. Arthur snarled, picking up the other cushion nearby and smacking it across Alfred's head. "I'll have you know that I save a lot of money knitting my own scarves!"

"Oh man!" Alfred _giggled_. "Seriously? You've got to be kidding me!"

Arthur threw the cushion at him instead, suddenly realising how much his lower back was protesting at his actions, grudgingly reaching behind him to give it a few rubs.

"Artie? You alright?"

"I'm fine." Arthur grumbled. It was embarrassing to admit to Alfred that he had spent the past two hours sitting so rigidly that his back was now hurting. He had a feeling that Alfred would have a lot to say to that too. It couldn't be helped, his mind argued weakly, sitting in his office working for long hours had long butchered the muscles in his lower back. It wasn't _old age_ or anything.

"Tired?" Alfred shuffled a little closer to him. "Could help with that. I'm pretty damn good at back massages."

Arthur felt a little too drained to complain, as he murmured his assent, and shifted over to sit cross-legged, his back to Alfred.

There was a pause behind him as Alfred, overcoming his surprise at how easily Arthur had accepted his offer, moved to shift as well. Arthur felt the tell-tale sink of the cushions below them as Alfred fidgeted about for a while-as he always did-trying to find a good position. There were occasional knocks of Alfred's feet against his lower back (just where it hurt), with Arthur trying not to wince at it. He'd admittedly been through worse, but it wasn't pleasant all the same. Alfred eventually came to a comfortable position, as it seemed, as Alfred brought his legs forward to bracket Arthur's, finally settling as he put his hands on Arthur's shoulders.

"So," Alfred purred, in a voice which Arthur assumed was an attempt at being sultry, into Arthur's ear. "Tell me where it hurts."

Arthur closed his eyes, mouth turning up in an inevitable smile, chuckling quietly.

"Lower back, you twat," He replied, failing horribly at trying not to sound too fond. "Get to it."

"Yes sir!" Arthur couldn't see the mock-salute Alfred had given the back of his head, but sighed pleasantly at the slow, warm knead of Alfred's hands against his back.

"Jeez Artie, you need to loosen your stodgy muscles up," Alfred said, as he rubbed at the knots in Arthur's back.

Arthur, a little sated and mind blurred by the silence which had fallen over the room, and the large, warm hands of Alfred against his back, leaned back a little into the touch, smiling for a reason which eluded him.

"Shut up," He murmured, giving Alfred's stretched-out legs beside him a token whack. "I'll be as tense as I want."

This time, he could feel, more than actually hear, Alfred's reverberating laugh, as it seemed to echo through him, bouncing off the corded-off corners of his mind, cementing that _awful_, silly, dopey smile he just couldn't seem to get rid off.

_Everything's alright._

The thought, like Alfred's laugh, rippled through him, as he mulled it over, his mind sieving through the syllables to it's hidden nuances, feeling every inch of the two words. The words which seemed to have entire hidden grottos' worth of depth.

_Everything's alright_. Everything _was_ alright, Arthur realised, for once. He was comfortable, for what seemed like the first time in a very long time. It felt like a small miracle.

For the longest time, Arthur had never been perfectly content to just sit and be still. His aunts, when Arthur had been much younger, had physically knocked the habit of jiggling his leg out of him, forcing him to sit still. It was a need to be productive, to do something with his time because there always seemed to be so little of it, even in his childhood. Classes to attend, brothers to run from, homework to do, aunts to visit and was never enough time to do a single thing, with so many others cloying for his attention, and he had soon found a way to get out of things (he deemed) less necessary or more troublesome.

Not today.

Whether he liked it or not, in a way that was strangely far beyond his control, Alfred had met his aunts. It _was_ strange, Arthur reflected, because it should have been within his control. They were _his_ aunts, it was _his _apartment, and Alfred - he knew, as much of a fight as he would put up from time to time - would have acquitted if Arthur had pushed for it. And yet he did not. He, Arthur Kirkland, control-freak and boss-extraordinare, had _let_ Alfred take over. The thought was disquieting, as Arthur momentarily worried for what he'd be doing next. _Trimming my eyebrows and growing out my hair again like that frog told me to in freshman year?_ For a moment, nothing seemed impossible, when confronted with the reality that he had let someone else take over, and had _followed that other person's lead_. Bad things, Arthur knew, happened, or _could_ happen, under the shoddy guidance of others. It was a possibility, and that _possibility_ was exactly what unnerved him, kept him up at night, made him worry over reports and deadlines beyond his power and job-scope.

And yet, this time, the sky didn't fall.

He had let Alfred take over, let him _meet his aunts_, _he_ had met Matthew, tried to be polite to a sodding frog over dinner, with Alfred and Matthew and... And everything was alright. He was _here_, Alfred hadn't left him, laughing hysterically down the hallway at the fact that Arthur embroidered. He was still here, he hadn't backed a hundred paces away, even after finding out that Arthur's three aunts fluctuated between being lovely old ladies and scheming, opportunitist old coots. Instead, _he was here_ (Arthur knew he sounded half-crazed, constantly repeating those three words over and over, pawing at them for some hint of being concrete and stable and not at all the workings of a very beautiful and effevescent dream), rested against the right arm of Arthur's worn couch, those callused (by console gaming, of course) hands still pressing and kneading insistently at Arthur's back, his legs pressing against Arthur's own now, curling in at the ankles, ever so slightly.

Arthur took a breath, and leaned back, closing the last few inches to rest right against Alfred's chest.

"A-Arthur?"

He watched Alfred for a moment, studying the startled wideness of his eyes (Arthur was rarely the one to initiate physical contact), and the slow flush rising to his cheeks. He steeled himself before he lost nerve, before Alfred shifted away (while a part of him fought back that no, he was here to stay), before the inevitably unfavourable circumstances which always seemed to pepper their relationship came into play.

Before any of the above could happen, in an uncharacteristic moment of affection, Arthur _knew_ what he wanted, and he wasn't going to think too much about it, or over-calculate or anything like that past what he'd already done and just take a chance and _he was going to kiss Alfred F. Jones_.

Arthur pushed up with his right hand, looking at Alfred straight in the eyes, turning over to face him. He watched the startling blueness of Alfred's irises, that same blueness which always seemed to simultaneously fascinate and disorient him-

Which was exactly what they did right then.

"Arthur, what-"

Instead of neatly turning over to face Alfred, Arthur's folded legs had somehow managed to tangle themselves into Alfred's, which resulted in his right hand not landing where it should have, on the other side of the couch, but instead nicely landing itself into Alfred's side, causing the other man to curl inwards slightly, pulling _both_ their legs into a further tangle and eventually depositing them into a piled mess, with Arthur's face landing in Alfred's left shoulder.

"_Ow_."

Arthur wanted to bury his head into Alfred's shoulder and never resurface.

"Arthur? What were you-"

Arthur sent his free, untangled hand to smack against Alfred's arm.

"Ow! Hey! I didn't even-"

"Sh't 'pp!" Arthur mumbled into Alfred's shoulder, still unmoving and very _very _mortified by his disastrous attempt at a kiss. _Of all the simplistic things to fail at, bloody hell._

"Whaaaaaaat?" Alfred whined, petulant at getting told to shut up for seemingly no good reason. "I didn't do anything! _You_ were the one who moved all of a sudden and you must've hit my _kidney_ or something! You can't tell me to-"

"Just sodding leave it!" Arthur finally cried, sick of Alfred's ramblings, lifting his face to look at Alfred, still pouting and nose scrunched up in displeasure, and still horribly attractive and amazing even through the ridiculousness of it all and _fuck it, I really am that far gone._

Holding Alfred's gaze for a moment, he let his face thump down onto Alfred's chest again, still pink with mortification.

Alfred cautiously disentangled a hand from between them to gingerly pat at Arthur's head, as if worried of scaring him away like a startled animal. "Arthur?" He began, tentatively. "You okay?"

No answer.

Arthur remained in position, hands tightening around the couch's cushions in frustration at his own inability, eyes still tightly shut against Alfred's chest. He could feel Alfred sigh, a little exasperated as it seemed, with the rise and fall of his chest, then the softest kiss pressed onto the crown of his head.

He looked up, just in time as Alfred was about to let his head fall back, half-torn between exasperated and furious because _he_ had been the one who had wanted to kiss Alfred, not the other way round, and now thanks to _himself_, the moment was completely ruined and gone and-

And he finally decided to _sod it all_, as he leaned in, and decisively pressed his lips against Alfred's.

It was softer than Arthur had imagined it would be, yet harder at the same time, for gravity seemed to work a little better than Arthur had previously remembered, and their noses _just_ missed collision ever so slightly, but it left Arthur's lips tingling pleasantly at the touch, as he pulled back to watch Alfred's own reaction.

Arthur resisted the urge to touch his own lips, just for the sheer feel of it, to check if that pleasantly warm tingling would spread to everywhere else in him as well with contact. He watched as Alfred's own lips took on a huge grin, dazzling in it's entirety, showing off all of his straight, perfectly white teeth, as he felt his own mouth curl into a similar smile of it's own accord. Arthur willed his blush to receed, as he ducked his head down slightly in a suddenly-beautifully warm mix of embarrassment and pleasure.

"Heh," chuckled Alfred, his voice leaking smugness, "Jeez Arthur, if you _really _wanted a kiss that badly, you could totally have told me. I mean, I know I'm pretty damn hot and all but jumping me like that was-"

His words were cut off by Arthur's loud, unrestrained laugh, as his hand came up to whack playfully at Alfred's head, his own voice saturated in mirth and unadulterated affection. "Shut up, git."

_Everything's alright._

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **  
>FUCKING FINALLY DAMMIT.<p>

... Now don't say I didn't tell you about the delays okay. School sucks, I swear, tch. But anyway, here's an ultra-long (11k! GOOD GOD HIKA WHAT HAVE WE DONE) chapter filled with bad jokes, old nemises and fluff which will hopefully make up for it! Again, faves/alerts/comments make our hearts skip a beat and the world continue spinning about it's axis, thank you so much for all the love you've given to us in the past 8 chapters!

ALSO, BIG(ISH) NEWS! Together, Hika and I have decided that we will be publishing a doujin/comic as an additional eplilogue to Heartstrings! It'll be a second epilogue of sorts to the one which we'll publish online, an additional bout of fluff (AND DRAMA), if you will. We'll put up a poll in our next chapter, an interest check for the doujin/comic, so we can publish something that you guys will hopefully like, and want to read! So please look out for that! Thanks again for the support and love, we hope you enjoyed this chapter too!


	10. Too Far Away

**Too Far Away**

Anyone who knew Alfred F. Jones would have told you - amongst other more flattering aspects that made up this particular breed of man - that he was easily bored. And though Alfred prided himself on being generally unpredictable, there was a predictability, a certain root cause for the mass of hectic zigzags that he drew on the canvas of his very eventful life.

That predictability was simply this: Alfred F. Jones disliked boredom.

He had been quite the fidgetter when he was young. The type of kid that all adults just _knew_ that they had to keep tabs on, just in case he ran off and broke something in his happy-go-lucky pursuit of the wonders of the world. The type of student that got extra, _loving_ care from all his teachers because he just wouldn't keep still in class, the general inability to sit still later evolving into a much more advanced form of Classroom Prankery and Class Clownery - joining the school basketball team and participating in extracurricular activities only providing an overly small outlet for that endless burst of energy within him. His friends knew him as a person who was constantly on the move, constantly exploring, constantly searching for new, inspiring, exciting things to do with his life; something that would hopefully bring some form of new stimulation to his ever-hungry mind and body and spirit.

It wasn't as if he was _fickle_, though many whom he rubbed in the wrong direction would proclaim this with a conviction, it was just that he was just so generally interested in _everything_. Nothing seemed to have the capability of holding on to his attention span for long enough. There was always something new out there to discover, to jump in and lay his hands on and take apart to see how it worked just for the sheer novelty of that experience.

It was the neverending pursuit of a sense of personal _freedom_, he would argue - patriotic down to the very bones of himself, loyal and true to his own nation and the values it stood for (as he would say, like a true blue American) - and not general inability to focus or commit or anything like that. There were so many things in the world to see and touch and feel; that sheer ecstacy of jumping off the cliff into the unknown, that second when your heart stops before the rollercoaster plummets downwards... It was the _happenings_ that brought him newfound life and energy, the exploration of everything and anything thrilling and young.

Which was probably why Anyone Who Knew Alfred F. Jones would be very confused when they found out about his relationship with one Arthur Kirkland.

Alfred himself would ponder over this every time he got a little bored with his PSP and still had some spare time on his bed before his eyelids would grow heavy. Being with Arthur was different. And that on its own was most definitely an understatement.

Arthur was the type of person who didn't appreciate rollercoasters. He most certainly wouldn't be branded as a very fun person either, with his ideal weekend being spent huddled on the couch with a good book and a nice cup of tea. Arthur knew nothing much about the new and the exciting, refused to make a facebook page for himself, and to Alfred's dismay looked at most technological developments and widespread popular culture with contempt. Arthur asked for order, for tangible, rooted stability and logically processed decisions; for things to make sense, for humans to make sense, for _feelings_ to make sense (and how many of their random arguments ended up with Arthur asking him to justify his claims objectively? Alfred had lost count).

Arthur was exactly what Alfred would have never been able to stand.

And yet, and yet here they were, eleven months (so close to a year!) into what was already becoming one of the steadiest of Alfred's relationships.

Alfred didn't really know what exactly it was that attracted him to Arthur. Sometimes he even forgot, only to be reminded of it the next time they met, and then, after a while, he would forget again. They met so sparingly that Alfred actually had the chance to forget.

That wasn't even the beginning of their problem.

It went without saying that Arthur was a busy person. Alfred himself was a busy person, but the extent of which Arthur's job played in his life was so vastly expansive, it was something Alfred couldn't comprehend. Work was work, associated mainly with the things that you Had To Do but Didn't Want To Do. Escape _from_ work was much welcome, and it had to be avoided at all costs during holidays and weekends to preserve one's sanity.

Work for Arthur, Alfred noticed, was Life.

Eight months ago, probably around the time when Arthur decided to kiss him one Saturday night after a rather amusing session with his aunts, Alfred had been content. He just didn't realise that eight months ago, they were in their honeymoon phase. (He had _thought_ honeymoon phases lasted only the first month, instead of _five entire months_ of a relationship.)

A month later, and they had stabilized. Arthur started focusing more on work, reserving only weekly Saturdays for Alfred, which sometimes had to become a Sunday, or even be cancelled completely due to sudden business trips out of London. Alfred too, admittedly, contributed to a few cancelled Saturdays, because _he_ had a life, and (lots of) friends, who would want to meet for a party every now and then. Parties that Alfred knew would traumatize Arthur, and friends that Alfred decided Arthur might not entirely appreciate.

Arthur seemed to be alright with that, and Alfred was sensible enough to note that he had his own life, and Arthur had his own life, and surely a bit of personal space and breathing room was crucial to the success of a long-term relationship? That Alfred could understand. He could appreciate it too; Arthur's open acceptance to him cancelling a Saturday date was a refreshing change to his previous partners who would require an hour or so of pleading and grovelling to pacify. He felt, at most, _adult_ and trusted and free.

Yet at times it bothered him slightly. He would, despite everything else - awesome friends, cool life, exciting parties and events to go to - miss Arthur every now and then. Want to hear his voice for no particular reason, want to hold him and bask in his warmth and do nothing but listen to him breathe. He would think of him, endlessly, and the pain of not being able to see him for weeks when he was on some of his longer trips was rather unbearable. He had, on occasions, even made the long-distance call to Arthur, who sounded a little awkward and uncomfortable when presented with the confession that he missed him (though he would, after a rather lengthy pause, mumble a "I miss you, too" through the phone, and that would make Alfred's heart flutter a bit, just a bit, and make it all slightly better).

But from Arthur it never happened. Text messages from him were scarce, phonecalls rarely happened. Arthur's relentless easy acceptance of _his_ absence was, to Alfred, extremely unnerving. Did he not miss him? Did he not want him around? Was he not important enough to stay lodged in Arthur's mind? Was he even ever _in_ Arthur's mind in the first place?

Alfred was an optimist. He believed that Hollywood-esque happy endings _did_ exist, and could very well happen, so long as you kept your heart open and mind willing. He didn't think too much about the nasty side effects of life, and focused on counting as many blessings as he could. He thought he was awesome, and though affirmation of this fact made him a very happy man, it wasn't as if he lacked in the department of self-confidence either.

But with Arthur, such things almost seemed to thin out a little too much; like pizza dough stretched out so much just a gentle probe would poke a hole into it and ruin the entire base.

It wasn't just Arthur's general capacity for living without him. That, Alfred thought to himself, was something he could live with. If anything, only getting to meet Arthur every once in a while made every date they had something special to look forward to. If anything, and this was definitely due to the sheer optimism he had within him innately, it actually _prevented_ him from getting bored easily, since Time With Arthur was now such a rare commodity, it was much like how a kid who only got to go to the zoo every half-a-year would _always_ find it entertaining no matter what. The far ends of his mind dismissed the term "novelty" because that meant that... He'd get sick of Arthur one day, wouldn't he? Yet, that didn't match up with the present problem.

The problem was less of the fact that they didn't have time for each other, it was the general lack of _everything_ else on top of that. If they met every once in a while like a pair of star-crossed lovers where the time together was so _quality_ with all the much needed exchanges of affection and touches and affirmation and then some, Alfred negotiated with himself on many occasions, he really wouldn't mind.

He had known from the start that Arthur was terribly bad at this. He had walked into this knowing exactly what was waiting for him, and yet now, at eleven months into the relationship, Alfred realised that - despite accepting the fact that Arthur already sucked at this so much - he had overestimated him (as sad as that sounded). He knew that they had settled down, and Arthur had most definitely grown a little more comfortable with him (enough to not flinch at every bit of contact initiated by him). It showed in how Arthur was a little less inhibited when it came to touches, how he would occasionally lean against him when he was reading a book on the couch, how he was willing to talk to him about almost everything.

Almost everything - Alfred thought bitterly - but his feelings. He didn't want to seem like a pathetic _girl_ who would go around whining about how her boyfriend didn't love her just because he didn't say "I love you" (or any cheesy substitute) every hour, but for _eleven fucking months_ he had yet to hear anything like that come from Arthur. At all.

Eleven. Fucking. Months.

He would occasionally bring this up - in the most subtle way possible - asking Arthur what he felt about their relationship, what he wanted and what he was looking for. Arthur would almost definitely freeze each time, and then retreat into some awkward, uncomfortable dimension where he would stutter and look away and do his best to change the topic. Alfred stopped asking after that, but the growing, nagging sensation in his stomach wouldn't go away.

Eleven fucking months and they were like two best buddies who would share the occasional touch or hug or kiss, and only when they were both alone, at either one of their apartments.

Arthur was probably dealing with his sexuality issue, Alfred decided, and that was understandable. It was another part of the relationship that Alfred was ready to take on as a potential obstacle. But he had thought and assumed that they had left that behind the day Arthur chose to kiss him. Yet still they couldn't touch or hold hands out in public, and Arthur treated him - at best - as a friend he was on good terms with when they were not in the comfort and privacy of each other's homes. And that was okay. That was perfectly okay. But one couldn't blame a guy for fantasizing about taking his lover out to the movies every once in a while and snuggling up with them across the armrest, or having a silly date at an amusement park, or being able to throw an arm around them and introduce them to his friends as _his_ right?

Alfred groaned, frustrated with the rather long-winded thought process his mind tended to go through lately everytime he thought about Arthur (random tangents included), and flopped back down onto his bed, face first into his pillow. His phone was still in his hand, tomorrow was a Saturday, and he had a dreaded feeling that perhaps today too, Arthur would send him a text to tell him that, sorry, he just couldn't make it tomorrow, how about next Saturday?

Arthur was getting increasingly busy the past few weeks. They had already canceled two Saturdays in the past month, and Arthur's replies to his text messages had been reduced to an hourly reply, often only spanning one or two words, as if he had hastily typed out something before going back to work. He didn't have time for dinner on the weekdays ("Have some extra paper work to clear out these few weeks, I'll be eating in the office.") because he was working overtime, and just recently had also taken to the habit of bringing his work home. Alfred had seen the rather large stack of brown envelopes on Arthur's work desk at home a while ago. He had a feeling it probably was a mountain now.

To add on to that, Alfred's brain churned on, as if the torture was just not enough for him, Arthur was also increasingly distant the past few weeks. It was as if there was always something else on his mind. He would zone out when Alfred was talking to him, staring blankly at his face but not entirely listening, thinking about something else (possibly work, or the mountain of brown envelopes on his desk), and that bothered Alfred to no end. They already had so little time together, the least Arthur could do was to focus on _them_ when it happened.

In his hand his phone buzzed to life. Alfred blearily raised his head off his pillow, expecting to see the dreaded text message about a busy Saturday too, but instead stared into the caller ID screen of his iPhone instead. Alfred blinked, squinted at the words that said Artie (he had changed Arthur Kirkland into that - he had the right to, didn't he?), and jumped up, sitting up straight. Arthur called. It was going to be sunny tomorrow.

"Artie!"

"Alfred." Arthur sounded a little overwhelmed by his overly enthusiastic answer.

Trying not to blurt out a _"You called? Who are you and what did you do to Arthur Kirkland?"_, Alfred calmed his racing heart, wondering why he was acting like this just over a _phone call._ "Yes?"

"Well," Arthur started, a little hesitantly, a little uncertain, "About tomorrow..."

Alfred held back a wince. Surely he didn't _call_ to tell him that tomorrow was cancelled? Of course, it made it slightly better that Arthur was calling to tell him, rather than leave him a simple and curt text message, but the sinking feeling in his chest was still persistent.

"... I was wondering what movie you'd like to watch." A pause, which Alfred used to pinch himself just in case he was dreaming, "I'll go rent the disc before you come over, that is, uh," he coughed, and Alfred could hear the slight rustle of paper, the image of Arthur nervously thumbing the corners of a proposal coming to mind almost immediately, "-if you're up for one."

"You're letting me pick?" Alfred didn't realise when his face broke into a rather silly grin, and tried to force it back down. How long was it since they had movie night? The previous few dates pretty much ended with Arthur on the couch with a book, and Alfred left to his own devices, churning out as many topics as he could only to have them swatted away by a "mm", "I see", or "git" from Arthur. Sometimes Arthur would laugh at his jokes, hide that small amused smile with his book. Sometimes he would end up throwing himself in Arthur's lap, and rolling about until Arthur turned away from the book to reprimand him. Most of the times he left. Alfred snapped out of his thoughts, scolding himself for being so easily satisfied. Hell no, he wasn't going to let Arthur get off the hook just because he was suggesting a movie night.

"... If it isn't too appalling I will accept your choice, if that's what you mean."

"You find _everything_ appalling, Arthur."

"I most absolutely do not. The movies you pick are simply plotless stories with the main protagonist being a multitude of explosions. What else are they, except appalling?"

"Transformers 3 was _awesome_, okay?"

Silence on the other side of the line, just some more rustling of papers and the slight tell-tale creak of Arthur leaning back in his chair. That, Alfred thought proudly of his ability to see Arthur's reactions even over the phone, was probably an eyebrow-raise.

"Alriiight. So uhm, I guess we could watch The Dark Knight!"

Arthur seemed to pause in consideration. "... So be it then."

"Artie?"

"What."

"Can we have popcorn?"

"You'll get fat." Arthur answered, then added, "... Caramel?"

"Caramel."

The phone clicked off, and Alfred flopped back down on his pillow, feeling considerably light-hearted compared to the state he was in three minutes ago.

Arthur called. To ask him to pick a movie. And they were going to have popcorn.

That was pretty nice.

* * *

><p>It <em>did<em> turn out to be pretty nice indeed, to the point where Alfred seriously contemplated on letting everything else drop, and just forgive Arthur for all his shortcomings completely. Arthur had ordered pizza, with all of Alfred's favourite toppings (without asking him what he wanted! That counted for _something_, didn't it?), and there was a new _tub_ of ice cream in Arthur's fridge (Cookies and Cream!). When Arthur brought out the bowl of popcorn, the drinks laid down on the table were a cup of tea and a glass of iced coke (not _two_ cups of tea!). And when the movie started, Alfred realised that he didn't really need to shift any closer, because Arthur's thigh was already touching his, and though he was helping himself to the popcorn - with a slight complaint about how sweet the bloody thing was - with a rather nonchalant attitude, he replied to most of Alfred's comments about the movie (no drifting away thinking about something else!) and leaned into the touch when Alfred threw his arm around him.

Then Alfred remembered why he forgave Arthur each time they met. It was true that Arthur barely said anything, nor did he initiate cuddle sessions. Rather, it was all the little things that he did, the little steps outside the Kirkland algorithm of plausible actions that made Alfred feel like he was the most special thing in the planet. Arthur Kirkland didn't stock up on ice cream, he didn't drink coke (or even offer it instead of tea), he didn't chortle at silly little jokes and insult _anyone else_ with that hint of fondness in his voice.

This _was_ pretty damned good, Alfred decided, between alternating mouthfuls of ice cream and popcorn and coke, and the feeling in his stomach dispersed. Instead, he latched on to Arthur as the credits rolled, nuzzling the side of his jaw. Arthur stopped moving entirely.

"... Alfred?"

"Mm?"

"... What are you doing?"

"Cuddling with you?"

Arthur made a small exasperated noise at the back of his throat, but didn't move away either. "... I need to get the DVD out of the player."

"Ah, you mean that myth that if you leave a disc in the player it'll spoil? Not sure if it's true, but," Alfred grinned, "You'd need to leave it there for at least a few hours for the damage to be done."

Arthur shot Alfred a look, which he responded to with a wide eyed, innocent smile,

"Don't worry. I'll let you go in a few hours."

Alfred could feel the slight chuckle Arthur made, against his chest, and for a moment, he'd thought he'd won. He could feel the other man relax into the embrace for a moment, not before tensing up again.

"The dishes," he murmured, as a form of explanation as he moved to sit up.

Alfred pulled him back down, frowning. "They'll still be there in an hour, Artie," he pointed out, nuzzling his face into the other man's sandy hair, before pausing. "If you don't want to cuddle with me, you can just say so though," Alfred laughed, albeit weakly. He said that with the confidence of a man who knew the answer, yet a part of him, somewhere in a darker corner of his mind, he worried that one day, Arthur would tire and just say yes, yes he didn't want to cuddle.

Luckily for him, today was not the day. "N-No," spluttered Arthur, and although Alfred couldn't see his face, he was predicting that Arthur was pinking slightly in the cheeks right about then. "It's just that... The dishes would..."

Alfred sighed, pressing one last kiss to Arthur's hair before letting him go.

"Alright, alright. I know you'd fidget all the while if you didn't, you OCD old man," he grinned, as Arthur looked up at him, cheeks indeed, slightly pink around the corners.

He watched, laughing, as Arthur clicked his tongue in derision, muttering something about how _unkempt Americans like you would never understand_, and _grime disturbs the faeries, sensitive creatures, them_.

Alfred's grin lingered, as he looked around the room, momentarily bored by the absence of Arthur. He'd been in Arthur apartment often enough to know his way around the place. It was well-kept, tidy, if the tiniest bit sparse. Alfred often asked Arthur about why he didn't make the place any more home-y, but they were often waved off with off-hand remarks of the trouble of decorating, and how he never spent much time at home anyway. There was hardly much in the living room, apart from the TV and what few periodicals or books Arthur left lying on the coffee table, and the knitting basket Alfred had found, stowed beneath the couch.

Alfred idly considered the amount of time he'd been spending at Arthur's house which was... A lot. Considerably more than they'd spent at his own apartment, although that could probably be attributed to the increasing presence of Francis at his and Matt's place, Alfred mused. Absently, he pulled out his iPhone to toy with it, hearing the sound of rushing water coming from the open kitchen to his right. Over the past few months, he'd learned that Arthur took him time with everything. It was just another way in which he was like an old man, and the amount of fondness injected into that thought was _not at all normal_, Alfred thought, grinning lightly to himself as he opened the Facebook app on the iphone before-

Damn.

Frowning, he shook his iPhone a bit, as he was always inclined to do with malfunctioning electronics (he always thought that it was in line with the logic of blowing into USB sockets when they refused to connect- And hey, if _that _worked, shaking would too right? Might just be a loose chip or something, you never knew...).

"Hey Arthur, I'm gonna go charge my iPhone okay?"

"Yes, go on-" The sound of running water stopped, as Arthur turned around, eyebrows knitted confusedly. "Wait, I don't have an iPhone charger."

Alfred was already off the couch and walking towards Arthur's study by then, turning to walk backwards to look at Arthur half-way. "Yeah, but you have an iTouch charger right? I mean, you didn't throw that thing away already, did you?" He laughed.

"No, but aren't they-"

"I'll explain later!" Alfred called from the bedroom, as he heard some confused mumbling and the start of the tap again. He plopped himself down onto Arthur's old swivel chair, and began to fiddle with and untangle the wires on Arthur's desk. Not that there were many to toy with, in the first place. Unlike Alfred's own desk (at work, he didn't see the point in having one at home when he could work at the dinner table with his Macbook), Arthur's didn't have the messy tangle of wires and cables disjoint from their actual appliances. It was just his old (_ancient_, Alfred thought, mentally clicking his tongue) Dell desktop, his Blackberry charger, a lamp and now, Alfred's old iTouch and it's connected charger. Shaking his head, Alfred pulled the charger out of the (already fully charged) iTouch. He'd told Arthur that over-charging damaged the battery in the long term, but he supposed that he should have known better than to trust Arthur to remember small little gadgetry-related details like that.

Just a few months ago, Alfred had uncovered Arthur's ancient CD (_CD? CD? People still bought CDs?_) collection, and discovered that Arthur did not own an music player of any kind (apart from an equally ancient walkman and _who on Earth uses walkmans in this day and age?_). _Blasphemy_, he'd thought, and immediately offered to get him the new iTouch, or at least an iPod Nano or _something_, which Arthur had, predictably enough, refused, citing the perfectly adequate functions of his walkman.

Alfred chucked his first generation iTouch at Arthur the next day.

He'd insisted on it, no matter how strenuously Arthur had objected, convincing him that it was doing no good, lying around at home collecting dust anyway, with Alfred's iPhone now serving as his music player. Alfred would like to think of the resistance Arthur had put up after that as "token" at best, eventually accepting the iTouch, asking Alfred about how he'd get all of his music in there anyway.

_Small victories_, Alfred grinned to himself, as he plugged his iPhone in and impatiently waited for it to regain it's first 5% of battery before he could use it again. Waiting was _hard_, he realized (not for the first time), drumming his fingers against the paper-littered surface of Arthur's desk. Idly, he flicked through a few dangling paper-corners which had been dripping off the side of the desk.

_Man this is taking forever- Ah shit._

He slipped down to aimlessly grab at the loose paper which had fluttered off to land under the desk, wondering if Arthur would notice if maybe one of his papers were a teensy bit crumpled. _Probably_, he mused, as he felt the ends of the paper crinkle under his rough grab.

Maybe he won't, Alfred thought, semi-hopefully, as he sat back in the chair, pulling at the wrinkled ends of what seemed to be a letter, hoping for the best, that perhaps Arthur would-

_New York?_

He felt the magnetic pull of the words, the way they always had seemed to attract him, even back when he was growing up in DC. The awesomest place in the world, Alfred had named it, and the idea kinda stuck. He'd gone there a few times, once or twice with his father on vacation, and once with his High School friends after graduation. The sugar-coated shine of the place hadn't worn down with time, as his dad had thought it would; Alfred was still as enamoured by the multi-coloured glow and rush of Times Square as he was of the thousand and one trains going everywhere all at once in Grand Central Station.

_Maybe Arthur's going on a business trip or something. Damn that's lucky, I-_

His breath caught.

_-In consideration of your contributions to Albion Publishing, we would like to formally offer you the post of **Branch Manager** in our new **New York** branch which will be opening in **January 2012**. This would-_

The bolded words seemed to shout to him off the page, and the first thing he thought was that _I __shouldn't be reading this-_

_But why not?_

_I'm his boyfriend._

_... I should put this down. I still shouldn't have- Shouldn't have read it, I mean, Artie would have told me right? January 2012. That's... Soon. Really soon. But this- He couldn't have just recieved this, he must've- Oh god._

Oh god.

That's _why he's been so busy. He's been preparing for this, for leaving London and- And- And _that's _why he's been distancing himself I-_

_I have to talk to him about... All this stuff._

_Fuck, I shouldn't have read this, maybe I can just put it back and-_

"Alfred? Did you find the charger? It should be somewhere-"

_Too late._

Alfred felt the paper crinkle again under his fingers. "A-Arthur! I-"

"You... What-?"

He could watch the line of Arthur's sight focus on the paper still in his hand, which he dropped on (belated) reflex, raising his hands up in surrender.

"T-This isn't what it looks like," he blurted out, disregarding the fact that it really _was_, as he took a step back from the desk, bumping into the chair behind him. "I-I swear, I really didn't mean to- I was just-"

"You can't just go around reading all my things!"

Alfred gave a helpless, guilty shrug as he watched Arthur hurriedly rushed forward to make hasty grabs at the piles of paper he had around. Stacks were pushed into open-top envelopes, stowed away into binder folders, but he kept his eye on the document he'd seen, still innocently sitting on a pile by the corner. "Alfred! Did you hear me? These- This is my _work_, and it shouldn't be any of your business to go poking around in it!"

_Shouldn't be any of your business._ He felt the words echo in his head, for a hollowed-out second, as the confusion which had set in his stomach minutes ago came pulsing back up, hotter this time, scorching him from the inside.

"Oh yeah Arthur?" Alfred could hear his volume increase, _feel_ everything rising in him, starting to spiral out of his grasp. He snatched up the same letter he'd read, right off the stack Arthur had been trying to fit into a large binder. "_Really_? Because you going to New York to work really does seem like my business!"

"I-" Alfred watched as the colour rose in Arthur's cheeks, as his hands began to fumble with the clasp of the binder. "I wasn't hiding it! I was intending to tell you once I sorted things out!" He cried, letting the binder drop back to the table with a loud smack, which Alfred refused to recoil from.

"_Sorted things out?_ What- You didn't get this yesterday, Arthur!" He looked back down at the wretched sheet of paper which had started it all, his eyes catching at every bolded detail, until it reached the date of address. "_28th November_! That's- That's been almost _three weeks_, Arthur! What were you waiting for? When were you going to tell me, a week before you left? Fuck, Arthur, what work was more important than-"

"_I_ wasn't even clear myself on- Why in the world should I..." Alfred watched Arthur, a desk's width away, clench his fists uncomfortably, pausing, his eyes seemingly fixed on a spot on the floor. "What would telling you any earlier do? I wasn't even sure what I'd be doing myself, and you're just going to- To what? _Tell me_ not to leave? This is _my_ decision-"

"BUT I'M YOUR BOYFRIEND!"

Alfred's volume startled them both, as Arthur's head shot up at the sudden shout, eyes wide. Alfred was pretty sure he didn't look much different; he hadn't planned on being half as loud as he had been. _But I_ am _his boyfriend and he _should _have told me about this whole thing. I mean, how on earth can we be together when-_

And then it hit him.

"This is why you were getting more distant, wasn't it."

"W-What?" Arthur seemed to physically flinch at the statement, as his arms crossed over his chest protectively. "I wasn't getting distant," he protested, eyebrows furrowing. "What are you talking about? We've-"

"_We_ haven't seen each other in _two weeks_, Arthur, and that's because you cancelled on me. _Twice._ You've been working at the office way past the hours you used to, and even when we do meet, you work half the time! You don't text, or call or- Or anything at all!" He gave a derisive laugh, which sounded oddly in the quiet room of Arthur's silence. What had been slowly swirling out of control was a full-blown twister of bottled up and stored away misgivings and emotions now, right out of his hands and out of any control he previously had. "Sometimes, I even wonder if we're in a real relationship."

The shocked silence almost made Alfred want to take his words back. (_Almost._)

"What are you- What the fuck do you mean by that?" If Alfred had been marginally irritated by how Arthur's gaze kept straying, now, he had his full attention, as Arthur looked back at him straight in the face.

"We hardly see each other! When we do, we don't, I dunno," Alfred ran a hand through his hair irately, "Go out on _regular_ dates like movies or whatever. We just stay in, which is actually pretty okay with me but-" His voice dropped an octave. "But you don't even really seem to _want_ to even be _near_ me much. You don't try to hold my hand, or to hug me or... Or _anything_ at all." Alfred swallowed, his throat constricting around dryness. He found the words which would inevitably follow tentative, fragile, like they could be broken by a strong breeze. "Do you..." The words seized half-way, his eyes caught at Arthur's blank, vaguely horrified stare.

"Is this why you didn't want to tell anyone about us? Because you knew, kinda, either way it'd be... Temporary?"

Another pause. Another pause long enough to make Alfred worry at his current thoughts, enough to make him wonder if he could back out of this, or maybe apologize and salvage what they had, or-

"No," Arthur finally managed to choke out, and Alfred watched him. Watched his face contain that same combination of shock and horror. And yet, Alfred thought to himself, the problem was that he had no idea what Arthur was shocked _at_. At him suggesting that about the nature of their relationship? Or at him finding out, before time, before his _plans_?

"NO," Arthur bit out, stronger this time, his hand coming to clutch the desk as if for stability. "No, Alfred- It's not- That's..." He broke their gaze, looking back down on the half-cleared table. "That's not it."

Alfred waited for something more.

"What is it then?"

It never came.

He looked down as well, at the desk between them, still half-strewn with a couple of binders, his iTouch, assorted papers, and the _one document_ that started this all. He let his gaze linger on it for a few empty moments, let his eyes trace the justified alignment, the stark darkness of the bolded words against the crisp, thrice-folded white paper, crinkled at the bottom left by his own hand. He stared for a while longer at the now-crooked black line at the end of the paper, waiting for Arthur's signature.

Still nothing.

"You're going, aren't you." It was a comment, an observation, not a question. He could see Arthur look up slightly, out of the corner of his eye. "This is the only thing left," Alfred's fingers nudged the edge of the letter, shifting it minutely over to Arthur. "It's... It's the reason why you've been working so much lately, you're... Clearing up loose ends or whatever it is and..." The sudden reality of it all, the thick, heavy notion which set in the base of his gut hit him, and Alfred reeled mentally. "... And you just need to sign this."

He felt faintly dizzy, disoriented by what he was saying. By _everything._

"And then you're gone."

He heard Arthur's soft, steady exhale from across him, and was suddenly struck by a quick, fleeting irrational hate for how Arthur could be so calm, so composed _because he's not the one getting hurt_, a soft voice said in Alfred's head.

"I don't know." Alfred closed his eyes, momentarily, at the admission. It was a smart thing to say, he thought, detachedly, without the promise of _no_, and yet not tinged with the same stinging truth of _yes_. Arthur, he morbidly decided, irregardless of what he'd said of his lack of social skills, was getting better at it.

"It's just... Really not that simple." Alfred expected a more forthcoming explaination, but when none came, he realized _that_ was what Arthur thought to be a sufficient answer. To _everything_.

"Nothing's ever simple with you, Arthur," Alfred looked up, right back at Arthur, straight in the face. "Because you don't _let_ things be simple. You _never_ let things be simple, because you need things to be perfect. For things to be in perfect balance, or of perfect timing or to be perfectly normal, but Arthur," Alfred strangely, felt calmer than he had in the last half-hour. The bursting vortex of emotions had died down to a low simmer, leaving him with a strange, calm sort of control.

"But Arthur, _I'm_ not like that. And since I'm half of _this_," his hand gestured between them, grasping at something words seemed to miss, "It means that our relationship will never be that kind of perfect either. There's always going to be too much work or too little time or too many other people or things and that's fine but-"

Alfred bit his lip, gaze wavering.

"-But you won't let it _settle_, you don't seem to _ever_ want to settle. To put our relationship first, or even a close second, just because it's not your ideal of perfect, like that kind of perfection you get to control, with your work, and I _want_ to make it perfect, Arthur, I want to make what we have the best for you because-"

Alfred caught himself at the last second, the words right at the tip of his tongue, and he realized, belatedly, as he felt the words slip off the ends of his control, that this was a _fucking horrible_ time to say this.

"-Because I love you."

He watched Arthur's eyes widen, his ears colouring at the tips, his lips part, slightly- But he said nothing.

Alfred let his head drop down, half-smiling and his eyes squeezed shut.

"But I'm _tired_, Arthur," He tried not to notice how his voice cracked, and how obvious it was in the quiet of the room, with nothing but the low hum of the heater in the corner to disguise it. "I'm..." He let the word waver, as he tried to articulate it better, better than just a single word.

"... I'm just really tired," Alfred looked up again, meeting Arthur's gaze.

Arthur didn't say anything.

Alfred felt everything, everything in all of its entirety, drain out of him with a gush, and then the slow, dripping of a leaking faucet, spilling everything everywhere where no one ever wanted it, leaving him completely empty.

He waited, for a few long moments, watching Arthur, looking at his lips, still slightly parted as if in anticipation of speech, his eyes still slightly widened, with those same, familiar, light wrinkes at their corner, before he decided that nothing else was going to happen here.

Numbly, he smoothed the corner of the letter, still at his fingertips, before straightening up. Fingers trembling, he tugged his iPhone free of the cord, and pocketed it, swallowing, as he looked back at Arthur. His face had paled, all of a sudden, and Alfred knew that Arthur _knew_.

_Say something, Arthur. Anything. Please Arthur, you don't even have to say it back, you just have __to- Have to say something. _

Arthur didn't.

* * *

><p>Alfred closed the door behind him, and walked a few steps down the hallway, legs trembling. He leaned against the pale cream wall of the hall, tired.<p>

_So tired._

He let himself stay there, bent over on the floor, the heels of his hands pressed against his eyes. He let himself stay there for fourteen minutes, just sitting there, breathing, waiting, because something inside of him desperately hoped that this would be like one of those penultimate scenes of those cheesy Hollywood movies, where the girl would cry in the corridor for a calculated moment, and the guy would come running after her, apologizing, begging her for forgiveness _and I love you too, I love you, so much, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to do this, please, please I'm so sorry, I lov_-

Fourteen minutes, and then Alfred left.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **  
>YOU <em>GUYS<em>. YOU GUYS! ONE HUNDRED REVIEWS! We are overwhelmed, in the best way possible, seriously :'DDDD Thank you all so much, again, for all of your overwhelming support and love for our fic! We love you too. Every one of you.

In case you guys missed it in the past A/Ns, we're at our final arc of Heartstrings. Two more chapters, and we'll be done with the main plot, and there'll be an "extra" chapter thirteen epilogue. Also, like we've mentioned in the last chapter, **Hika and I will be publishing a doujin/comic** of the "part two" of the epilogue (the two parts are completely independent though! Different stories being told and all)! Yay! We're very very very excited, but we need your feedback too! We'd really appreciate it if you could take a little time to **go to our profile**, and click on the link to a really really **quick survey** on the doujin, so we can get a better feel of what you guys would like in it! Sounds good?

That's about it for now! Hope you guys enjoyed(?) this chapter too!

P.S, Livejournal's been giving us a bit of trouble lately, so we've switched to Tumblr! You can follow us there for more updates on the fic, doujin, random sketch dumps, drabbles, etcetc. Link's in our profile as usual, or you can just type in our name, we're still Symbiotific there!


	11. Too Much Intervention

**Too Much Intervention**

It took Arthur a total of thirty minutes to finally pick up his phone.

_I should call him._

The sentences that refused to come to him when it was important had finally settled down in his head, late and weary. He had sifted through them for the past half an hour, standing in the same spot, still facing his desk, as though Alfred was still there, still waiting for him, looking completely broken.

(He wasn't.)

His thumb grazed over the Call button.

And smashed down on the End Call button almost immediately after.

What the hell was he doing?

It was all too late now, the voice in his head whispered-Arthur almost wished they could've been viciously spat at him instead-_if you were going to say anything you should've grabbed on to him to stop him from leaving._

And he had wanted to. When Alfred had walked past him he was so _close_, so within reach; they had almost brushed shoulders, and at the moment when his body had finally decided that it could move, if he reached out, now, he would-even if he missed-have managed to at least grab onto Alfred's jacket.

What had stopped him from reaching out was the stone cold echo of Alfred's words that caught at his fingertips.

_(-I'm just so tired, he said.)_

He was?

Something had dropped all the way down in his stomach as his brain churned and re-processed the implications of that sentence again. Alfred was tired. From being with him?

_(-But _he _had been satisfied. Happy with what they had. But all this time, Alfred was-?)_

Then what, he questioned himself firmly, what right did he have to hold him back? How selfish would he be, to not have any other answers for him, to not be able to provide what he needed for him, and yet still hold him back? Ask him to wait again? _Stay?_

What was there to stay for anymore?

Arthur knew that Alfred was not wrong. He had not accused him of anything that he was not guilty of. He _had_ put work before them, and he _had_ made that choice because deep down, he had already prepared himself for this to be temporary.

But not because he was planning on leaving London. Not because he did not-

Did not-

And his mind grappled furiously at that one particular word (_word, word, it's just a bloody word, why can't I even-_), scratching at it so hard that all that was left of it were shreds of what it used to be.

-Alfred.

Only because there was a part of him that was resolute in believing that at some point, Alfred would choose to leave him. And what would happen if he had given up all his opportunities for Alfred? Sacrificed his career for Alfred? What if he had already announced to the rest of the world that he was in a relationship with another male? What would he be left with, if Alfred left?

Arthur knew that questions like these weren't asked. Everyone simply knew the answer, somewhere, in them, and Arthur wondered if they missed out on giving him that mechanism at creation, that certain brand of logic he seemed to be missing out on. He knew that the rest of society would never accept his argument. He would be branded _heartless_; to _not_ think about risking everything for that one true love that had accepted him, that had patiently waited for him, that had chosen to stay. Everything-Arthur could almost hear them chant-_everything_ should be given up for The One you loved.

Arthur thought that was utter rubbish.

Relationships never lasted forever. Arthur had seen too many-even those that had looked like the ideal of a perfect relationship painted in a child's fairytale book-end without prior warnings of fragility. And if, even between those happy couples (both of them caring, loving, emotional, Real Human Beings), things could end so suddenly, what right did he have to assume that _his_ would last? That Alfred would, somehow, stay with him (uncaring, cold, awkward, not-human-at-all Arthur Kirkland) forever?

There was no sure way of knowing that. In fact the percentage for failure was so high Arthur could never understand or fully comprehend why Alfred had left only now.

With work it was different. With work, Arthur knew exactly where he stood. What he was capable of. What his actions would bring. He knew that if he didn't abandon his work, didn't abandon his achievements, they would stay with him for life. _They_ wouldn't leave him alone. They were solid and tangible, documents certifying sales achieved, degrees earnt, years put in. And was it not right, to put something that would last for eternity before something that was so fragile? So ready to disappear?

Arthur realised, with the burning cold in his stomach when Alfred had given him the verdict, that he _had_ been ready for this, and that in a way, he had been waiting for this for the past eight months. For Alfred to announce that he couldn't stand him anymore, and that this was the furthest they could go. There was only a quiet acceptance that the time had come; that this was only to be expected, and that he should just count his blessings that they had lasted this long.

If Alfred wasn't happy in the first place-

His fingers tightened around his blackberry, and he stuffed it into his pocket instead.

-Then he had no right to protest.

* * *

><p>Angelique frowned at the sticky note on her computer screen.<p>

_Please bring me my tea._

She checked her HTC. 8.04am. She was really early today, an entire 46 minutes earlier, and her boss usually didn't come in till 8.30am at his earliest. The only reason why she was in earlier than usual was to finish up some paperwork she had skipped out on yesterday, needing to hand it back to Mr Kirkland first thing.

Crap, she thought to herself, half-regretting leaving the work for today. Mr Kirkland, she knew, would have her head if it weren't ready on time. _Maybe_ he wasn't actually in, maybe she just somehow missed the note yesterday. Maybe.

Idly biting her lip, she pushed the ajar door of Arthur's office open an inch, to peek in when-

"Yes, Miss Angelique?"

What she let out was not a squeak, no, she convinced herself, as she straightened up, holding the door open properly. "I- Er, it's nothing, Mr Kirkland. You're... In early today though."

"Yes I am," he replied, still not looking up from the documents in hand. "And that cup of tea I left you a note about?"

"Right away," she quickly said, leaving the room as fast as she could.

_Well, things could have gone worse. He could've remembered about the-_

"And I'll need those finalized documents I sent to you yesterday. Now."

Tiredly, she blew the hair out of her eyes as she made her way to the kitchen. _Stupid eyebrows._

* * *

><p><strong>Messages<strong> 0. **Missed Calls** 0.

* * *

><p>"ALFRED, MON AMI, I HEARD THE GOOD NEWS!"<p>

Francis threw open Alfred's door without any preamble, briefly hearing Matthew groan and facepalm in despair in the office across the hall. Francis however, could not have helped it even if he tried. Alfred leaving Arthur was _wonderful _news! He always had a certain fondness for his boss, in a different way from how he loved Mathieu, of course, but a fondness nevertheless, more in the capacity of a big brother, if you would. Frankly, he was a little more than shocked at the reconcillation of truth: That the surveyee-Arthur was Arthur Kirkland. High-School-roommate-stick-in-the-mud-and-up-the-ass-except-that-he-wasn't-gay-(well now we know better) Arthur. Mon dieu, he'd thought. He knew love was blind but... It couldn't be _that _blind, could it?

"Alfred! Did you hear me?" Francis frowned, walking over to stand behind Alfred, who's eyes were still glued to the screen. Francis peered over the blond's head.

_Plants vs Zombies?_

He lad a hand on Alfred's shoulder. "Alfred?"

Alfred started at the touch, whipping his head back to face Francis, startled. "F-Francis! _God_, don't scare me like that! Why didn't you-" A few squishy sounds and a single crunching one came from the Macbook. "AAAHH, shitshitshit _no_ DAMMIT!" He spun back to the laptop, rapidly clicking what Francis assumed to be... _Spitting plants?_

"I did, actually," He supplied, talking to the back of Alfred's head as he continued to play. "I was congratulating you when I came in." He watched the game from behind Alfred's shouder, as he waited for a reply. The zombies were coming at what seemed to be... Plants? Large nut-shaped things? _Mon dieu, what is that large one doing to-_

"H-Huh? Oh. Right, yeah, sorry. Distracted with," he waved his left hand in the general direction of the screen, "Y'know. Game." Another pause. "So... What's up? You were congratulating me? What about?"

"Oh! Yes!" He pat Alfred on the back a few times, smiling. "I heard from Matthew about Arthur, you see," Francis watched as a few zombies trampled on the plants before they could shoot at him. Poor planning, he thought, mentally clicking his tongue, as Alfred scrambled to make up for his mis-calculation, clicking furiously.

"And I was just here to well, give you a little encouragement! Mathieu was talking about how you'd need, ah, support? So here I am! Big brother will give you all the support you-"

"Just-" Alfred cut in, eyes still focused on the screen. "I'm fine, Francis." The Frenchman watched as the zombies slipped past another shoddy line of defence. "Really."

"Well, still, I must, as Mathieu said, support you on your decision!" Francis insisted. "Honestly Alfred, even that last girl you dated- The pretty red-head with the hazel eyes? The one you said was, what was it, 'clingy'? She was smitten with you! Far better than that _rosbif_, I am certain," Francis snorted.

"Arthur wouldn't know a good relationship if it bit him on the nose," He continued, as he leaned back against the glass behind him. "Always very bad at them, you know, even back in high school," Francis smirked at the memory of one of Arthur's ex-girlfriends who had come to _him_ for comfort, after a particularly emotionless break up. "You, mon ami, are much better off without that-"

"Francis," Alfred cut in again, "T-Thanks. But I'm fine, really I just-" The pause was punctuated by a few rapid clicks and a brief swear and was that the revving of a _lawnmower_? A few more seconds, and the sounds of the game stopped.

"-I just need some time." Alfred concluded, rubbing at his temple with his hand. He still didn't look at Francis.

_Ah, foolish love_, Francis though sympathetically. He knew what it felt like, and that a reprive from it would come eventually. He patted Alfred's back again sympathetically.

"With time, Alfred. With time, and you'll just think of this as another past mistake," Francis murmured, walking back out the door.

* * *

><p>Arthur was staring at his blackberry, feeling rather silly and foolish. He had, in the past ten minutes, been pressing the Call button, then the End Call button almost immediately over and over again. It was like-and Arthur had tried to shut this train of thought down, but it had come to him so easily as second nature-one of those rhythm games Alfred liked playing on his iPhone. Pause. Tap Call button, immediately tap End Call button. Pause. Repeat.<p>

_This needs to stop._ He told himself firmly, and threw his blackberry down on his desk instead. It landed safely in a pile of brown envelopes and loose papers. He rubbed his temples, then forced together his fraying focus and turned back to the computer.

For the past week he had been easily distracted. Like there was a magnet in a certain compartment of his brain that kept tugging his consciousness in its direction. Alfred. Alfred. _Alfred_. The pull brought along with a dull constricting in his chest, which he absolutely hated, but it was so strong that if he wasn't doing anything, his mind would wander, and he would find himself fingering his blackberry again, staring at that _one entry_ in his address book that was the only number in his call logs at the moment (all calls that he ended within 0.1 seconds), his thumb aching to hit the button.

It had already been a week.

Arthur clicked through the spreadsheets on his screen, realising that even though his eyes were scanning through each line methodically, with efficiency, the contents of each cell didn't register. At all. (The only reminder for what he was doing was the title of the spreadsheet, and Arthur took a moment to thank himself for being anal even when it came to naming documents on his computer.)

It was already a week; surely even if Alfred had been waiting - maybe still considering him in the edge of his mind - for the first three days, by now he would've moved on with his life? And him, making this call - what was he trying to achieve by doing this? Was he trying to drag Alfred back? From being happy again?

_Absolutely ridiculous. _His brain scoffed, and Arthur jabbed another dagger of self-loathing into himself. He exhaled, rubbing his temples. It took too much to force his brain to put thinking about Alfred to one side. The only thing that proved to be enough of a distraction-something that wouldn't allow his mind to stray at all, something that would keep him so busy that he wouldn't have the time to think about anything else-was work. The comforting flow of paperwork that came in through emails and faxes, deadlines waiting to be confirmed and cleared, proposals to be approved, budgets to be allocated... And Arthur relished it with an almost masochistic kind of frenzy. He didn't need to think. He needed to work. Work till he was so tired he would just collapse onto bed and blank out till the next morning - no extra time spent staring at the ceiling, or (god forbid) _moping_.

_It was over._ He told himself again (for the tenth time today). Now all that was left to do was to not sit around upset, not sit around thinking about things that were out of reach, and do something about his life left. _He was fine._ (He had to be.) He hated the thought of just wallowing in his sorrows being unable to do anything. He didn't want or need sympathy. He knew clearly what went wrong (_he_ went wrong), and so what else was left for him to do, other than to accept that he made a mistake and that it had cost him something- (_No, not there._) He was going to be productive. He was going to pick up whatever pieces he needed to pick up, stick them together with glue and duct tape and maybe some superglue, and go back to being Arthur Kirkland.

It didn't sound too difficult, and Arthur thought that he was pulling it off pretty well. (So long as he didn't have time to get distracted. All he had to do was focus on work for another week or so, and soon everything else would fall into place and his normal life would pick up again, just like it had previously-)

"Uhm... Mr. Kirkland?"

Arthur cursed inwardly. Just when he had managed to redirect his energies back to the spreadsheet, and the cells and rows and columns were starting to make sense, and he could feel his brain gear up and get ready to sink into that work-induced trance of efficiency-

"What is it, Miss Angelique?"

His secretary looked a little uncomfortable, gaze darting around as she bit her bottom lip, "Uh, well... everyone's already left, and er, I need to lock your door before I leave too." She paused, then added helpfully - as if she thought Arthur had not noticed, "It's already eight thirty."

"Go ahead. I have the key to my room. I'll lock up once I'm done with this."

"Oh..." Another awkward pause. "A-are you alright? You didn't go for lunch break, and surely it's too late for dinner-"

"I'm not hungry. I'll get a sandwich later." He didn't look up from his computer screen, but he heard her defeated sigh. "Good night." He added, hoping that she would leave him to work.

"... Good night." The door shut behind her.

* * *

><p><strong>Messages<strong> 0. **Missed Calls** 0.

* * *

><p>"There is," Gilbert announced solemnly, leaning into Antonio's face over the slight paper clutter on his desk, "Something wrong with our Boss."<p>

Antonio blinked twice at Gilbert, then his gaze shifted to Angelique, who was behind him nodding rather fervently. "Aaaah... Lovi? Something came up at the office... No no! It's not because I'm bored talking to you! I'll call you back once I fix it okay? Okay!" He turned back to Gilbert, who appeared to be glaring at him through narrowed maroon eyes. "Yes?"

"You were calling your boyfriend during office hours!" He roared, throwing up both hands in the air, "No wonder you wouldn't come out to drink with me! And now Kirkland won't come and- OH." Gilbert slammed both hands back down on Antonio's desk. "There's something wrong with Kirkland."

"... He's working super over-time?" Antonio suggested.

"No. No no, that's normal." Gilbert waved a hand in dismissal. "I mean, okay, I'm sure he spent a night in the office two days ago because he was wearing the same set of clothing the next morning but naaahh that's still normal."

"He asked for coffee yesterday." Angelique added in, wide-eyed. "D-do you know how stressful it was for me? What if he wanted tea and said coffee? If I brought him coffee would he yell at me? B-but what if I brought him tea when he really wanted coffee and-"

"He asked for an extension too, did you hear?"

"Eh? What, for his New York thing?"

"Yea. The Tops didn't seem to be too pleased. They were expecting him to accept immediately actually. But they gave him one more week."

"Well," Antonio poked his chin with the butt of his pen, "Maybe something just came up?"

"I asked him to drink tonight." Gilbert paused for effect and dropped his voice. "He said no."

A pause.

"Whoaaaa." Antonio picked up the phone again, ready to dial. "Ambulance?"

"Francis." Gilbert concluded.

* * *

><p>"He won't drink?" Francis leaned back in his chair, incredulous.<p>

"He won't drink," affirmed Gilbert, knocking back the last of his beer.

"Must be something really wrong with him," mused Antonio, as he finally stopped fiddling with his phone. "Arthur's never turned down drinking with you before, right?"

"Never, I mean, why would he want to miss out on this awesomeness?" Grinned Gilbert, as he raised his glass for another round.

"Mhm," Francis mumbled distractedly, forming a steeple with his fingers, staring into the middle distance, as the other two talked on. He had never heard of Arthur rejecting any form of alcohol either, even in the years _before_ they could legally purchase it. There was never a situation Arthur had thought alcohol wouldn't dull the pain or horror of, and even if he did attempt to abstain, whatever token resistance was easily shattered, as far as Francis had known.

"-And then Lovino, he- Francis?"

Francis blinked a little absently back at Gilbert and Antonio, who had both suddenly turned to focus on him.

"A-Ah, sorry, I was just... Thinking," he admitted, apologetically. "About Arthur."

"Jeez Francis," smirked Gilbert, "I thought you said that that thing in high school was just a-"

"We do not," cut in Francis, sharp and biting, "Talk about that. _At all_." He paused, glaring at Gilbert, before letting up again. "And it is not about that, in any case."

"Oh? Something to do with his overworking?" Antonio asked.

Francis paused, heavy with the considering thought of a certain other blond boss who had been involved with Arthur of late.

"Perhaps, I'll tell you more if I find out," he replied, vague, before redirecting the conversation. "Sorry Antonio, what was that about Lovino again?"

* * *

><p><strong>Messages<strong> 0. **Missed Calls** 0.

* * *

><p>"Come in," Alfred said, to whoever was behind the door, on auto-pilot. His eyes never left the screen, hand still on the mouse, as he continued to play Bejeweled.<p>

To say that it had been a bad week for him would have been an understatement.

Bad, Alfred thought, barely grazed the surface of it. Bad was when you didn't get your laptop fixed on time, or when your Xbox broke down in the middle of a raid. This was so extremely far _beyond_ bad, Alfred had no idea what to do with himself, apart from driving himself into a minor gaming coma. Matthew could attest to his slow decent into it. He went through multiple mini-phases in the last two weeks, starting with Plants vs Zombies. After beating the game, he went into Diner Dash, and then a brief stint in Farmville (which proved to be too slow for him), then a few assorted flash games and later, Sims Social on Facebook. While waiting for his energy to charge, he'd discovered Bejeweled Blitz, and had been stuck ever since.

And that was when he was at the office, away from his Xbox and Wii and PS3.

Matthew had let him wallow for the first week, considerately sitting by him, playing Mario Kart, giving him hot chocolate when he woke up at 3am, unable to sleep, and found Alfred on the couch, watching old re-runs of Friends, the laughter from their stereo system echoing around the living room.

At the start of the second week, Matthew had nudged at Alfred's foot after a round of Super Smash Bros Brawl, pulling his brother's gaze away from the screen.

"Hmm? What? And before you ask, we're not going to change maps-"

"Alfred," Matthew had cut in, serious and eyes lookiing right at Alfred, right through him, and Alfred wondered how on earth Matt had thought that this was an appropriate time to talk about _it_. (Especially after Alfred had delcared that he would not talk about it again, and Matthew wasn't allowed to ask. That day, two weeks ago, when Matthew had found Alfred squeezed in the small space between their refrigerator and stove, a half-opened bag of chips in his hand, crying, hands shaking from the extertion and choking out _M-Mattie I can't get t-these chips open... I can't- Can you- I-_)

He turned back to the game. "Yeah?"

He could hear Matthew sigh, audibly. "Alfred," he started again. "You," he paused, and Alfred waited. He knew what was coming. "You need to-"

"Yeah." Alfred punctuated the comment with the execution of a Final Smash.

"... Yeah?" The sound of destruction and Matthew character dropping off the playing screen sounded off in front of them.

"Yeah, Mattie," He'd said, eyes still on the game. "I know and... Yeah I will... Y'know. Soon."

Matthew had paused, before turning back to the game himself. "Okay."

A voice which had come very much in tandem with Matthew's, over the span of the past year or so, cut through his office, bringing him back.

"Alfred?"

He paused the game, and looked up. "Yeah, Francis?"

Francis hovered in the doorway, and Alfred realized that Francis, self-assured, cock-sure, I-will-charm-you-into-submission Francis, was nervous.

Alfred blinked a little. "Francis? What's wrong? Did something happen to Matt?"

"W-What? _Non_, why would you-" He seemed to startle at the thought, before catching himself in understanding half-way. "No, Alfred, Matthew's fine," he smiled, closing the door behind him, before gesturing at one of the two armchairs in front of Alfred's desk. "May I?"

Alfred raised an eyebrow, but nodded. "Yeah, yeah of course, sit." Francis had never really been this polite to Alfred before, almost ever. He didn't even have the courtesy of watching his interview manners; Matthew had taken care of that. "Francis, you're kinda scaring me here, being all," he gestured vaguely, as Francis sat himself down. "All formal. And stuff. Is everything okay?"

He watched, as Francis crossed, then re-crossed his legs, before shifting forwards minutely, face set in a strange look of half-confusion, as if he couldn't quite place the reason as to why he was here.

"It's about Arthur."

"Oh." Alfred looked back at the screen of his Mac. At least he knew _why_ Francis looked confused now, he thought to himself, idly starting a new round of Bejeweled. In the few months that he'd known of the relationship between Arthur and Francis, one solid concept stood out from the pile of assorted mishaps, bitchings, pranks-gone-awry and almost-fond recollections: They drove each other up the wall. Francis, Alfred thought, probably was wondering _why_ he found himself talking about Arthur so much of late, in the good name of schadenfreude. The last time he'd come into Alfred's office, he'd given Alfred the literal pat on the back for leaving Arthur, sprinkled liberally with proclaimations of how Alfred was far better off without the silly British man.

Alfred felt a headache coming on at the thought of another tirade. He'd been thinking himself into a corner for the past two weeks, and he really didn't need Francis' encouragement right now.

"Francis, I heard what you said the last time, really, I did, but I just-"

"_Non_," cut in Francis, a tinge impatient, clicking his tongue. "It is not that. It's..."

"It is _about_ Arthur," He repeated, helplessly grappling with the words.

Alfred raised an eyebrow, still looking at the screen. "Well, okay, now you're talking," he commented, drily.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Francis run a hand through his hair, frowning. "This isn't the easiest thing to do, Alfred."

"You don't _have_ to bitch about Arthur, y'know." Alfred paused. "You _do_ know that right?" Because given these two, you honestly never knew how thier minds worked in relation.

"Yes," Francis sighed, as he leaned back into the soft leather of the chair. "I do, Alfred, but I am not, what you call 'bitching' about Arthur today I..."

"Yeah?"

He could hear Francis expel a large sigh. "Arthur is a fool, Alfred and you must-"

"I thought you said you weren't bitching about him?"

"I am not," Francis replied, sharp and vaguely annoyed. "And if you would just _listen_, you would tell that I am not." Alfred watched him pause, stock-still, considering his words.

"Arthur Kirkland is," he gave Alfred a reproachful look, "A fool. He has the wrong priorities, work before everything else, and he wouldn't, I still insist, know a good relationship if it bit him on the nose." Alfred nodded, on his second round of Blitz by then, wondering when it would be a good time to start tuning him out. After Matthew, he'd gotten good at it.

"-Previous girlfriends, have I told you? They all left him saying the same thing, that he was a heartless bastard who could not be assed to do anything remotely romantic at all, and in one instance, even canceling a date to do work," Francis spat, disgusted by the thought of how horribly un-romantic Arthur could be.

Alfred could feel his stomach churn at the familiarity of Francis' last comment.

"He is, without a doubt, one of the worst people to have a relationship with but I-"

"Francis, really, I really don't-"

"-BUT I,' insisted Francis, as he raised his voice over Alfred's, only to stopping short. He paused again, eyebrows furrowing in that same look of half-confusion, half-resolution. "But I," he repeated, as if somewhat defeated by his own thought process, "I believe in love."

Alfred looked up from the half-completed game, blinking, a second away from croaking out a half-formed joke about how ridiculous Francis could get about all of the _l'amour_ business, be it his or anyone else's.

"The blindness of love," he ammended, mouth turning down slightly at one end. "But still, in love and..." Francis paused again, and Alfred waited, still looking at him, his finger idly shifting around the trackpad of his Mac. _And what?_

"And Arthur has stopped drinking."

Alfred blinked, waiting for the punch-line. None came.

"And?" He asked, confused.

Francis' frown deepened, looking almost disapprovingly at Alfred, as if having expected Alfred to catch on by this point. "Arthur _never _turns down a drink, I thought you knew that."

Alfred shrugged. "He never really drank a lot around me, wine over dinner, that kind of thing, and he said he went out with co-workers once in a while- Oh and that call, a while back, but... Yeah." He watched Francis sigh, and rub his temples idly.

"Well, he does." Francis concluded.

"Oh." Alfred looked back down at his desk, empty of work, files, or paper of any sort. He thought about it, about Arthur giving up drink.

Francis, still sitting in front of him, blew out a breath, irritated at Alfred's lack of response. "Alfred, Arthur giving up alcohol is like..." He trailed off, looking at a spot on the desk, before flicking his gaze back up in a moment of inspiration.

"It's like Matthew going off maple syrup."

_Well shit._

Francis nodded, reading his expression. "Exactly."

"Well shit," Alfred said, again, even though he knew Francis had already read it off his face. _Important things bear repeating, _he thought to himself, idly glossing over the fact that the phrase had been laid out in Arthur's clipped accent in his mind. He took off his glasses, and rubbed at the back of his eyes. He really was tired, and this, _this doesn't help at all. _

Francis gave a subtle cough, and Alfred looked back at him.

"It is..." Francis said, haltingly, considering his words. "It is not my place, nor my habit to help Arthur but," he ran a hand through his hair again. "But you seem to be... Suffering a lot, because of that _rosbif_, and from what I heard, he isn't doing so well either so I thought perhaps you might need-"

"Arthur's not doing well?" Alfred cut in, curious. He knew (hoped) that Arthur would be affected too, in some way. The man wasn't heartless, it was just that their priorities clashed in all the wrong ways half the time, and hearing that Arthur too was afflicted in some way sparked something in Alfred, above the news that he gave up drinking.

Francis rolled his eyes, re-crossing his legs again, idly toying at his own hair. "Yes, I already said that, remember? About the drinking. Arthur's apparently over-working himself as well, and something about extending a deadline for a promotion?"

Alfred blinked. "Arthur extended the deadline?"

"Well, I think so, 'Tonio and Gilbert said something along those lines and-"

"Are you sure?"

It was now Francis' turn to blink at him. "No, not really," he admitted, looking over Alfred over cautiously, "But I think they mentioned something about an extension."

At that, Alfred felt what seemed like the most irrational of all hopes bubbling up.

_He asked for an extension. That has to mean something, doesn't it? Maybe he's reconsidering or... Or something. Oh hell. I don't know. Maybe Francis heard wrongly, or he just needs more time to finish up all that work or..._

He looked at his iPhone, sitting next to his Mac, out of the corner of his eye.

_But he hasn't called. Or texted. Or said anything at all._

Alfred pushed his glasses up and rubbed at his eyes again.

_But I never gave him a chance to explain either- I mean, I _did_, but he didn't talk _then_, so I left and- And oh god. What if he meant to, but I just _left _and now he thinks that I don't- I don't want to..._

_I need to talk to him._

_... Or what if I'm reading into this all wrong and he has moved on already and I'm just overthinking this whole thing and- Oh god, calling him or whatever would be awkward as fuck and it'd seem like-_

"Alfred?"

In all honesty, Alfred had forgotten Francis was still there.

"Yeah, yeah, sorry, I just..." He waved his hand about vaguely.

Francis looked like he was about to say something, his mouth parted open in the pretense of speech, before he closed it again, and silence ensued. The thought still haunted Alfred, had haunted him since that day two weeks ago, when he'd seen the letter.

_What if I'm holding him back?_

Francis sighed from across him, sounding worn. "I'm sorry, Alfred, perhaps I shouldn't have told you-"

"No," Alfred cut in, "No, it's fine, it's... Thanks. For telling me, y'know?" He cracked a half smile. "I know how much you guys um, hate each other."

Francis' lips twitched upwards at the comment. "Only scratching the surface of it, I am sure." He paused, looking Alfred over once more, and this time, he could see the worry evident in Francis' glance.

"I'm fine," he repeated, for what seemed like the thousandth time that week. "Don't worry about me, yeah? It's... It's good that you told me. About Arthur."

Francis nodded, fingers idly rubbing at a lock of hair again, seemingly still in conflict with himself, before looking back at Alfred. "We just want you to be happy," he said, "Even if it means being with that rosbif, or perhaps beating him up or going to have sex with someone just because you can."

Alfred's breath catches for a moment at his use of 'we', and for a second, he wonders how much he's missed in the past year, about what has gone on between Francis and his brother, and an idle, far-flung part of him misses all of the implications of a first-person _inclusive _pronoun.

Another aching part of him tells him that you can't miss what you've never really had.

He nods at Francis, smiling weakly, and hand absently reaching for his iPhone.

"Yeah, I know, Francis," He said, unlocking his phone, still holding Francis' worried gaze. "Thanks."

* * *

><p><strong>Messages<strong> 0. **Missed Calls** 0.

* * *

><p><em>This,<em> Arthur thinks, as he stumbles back to bed, _has been a gross miscalculation._

He lands unceremoniously back on his unmade bed, forearm over his eyes, just high enough to feel the heat radiating from his forehead. He had already downed two aspirins a few minutes ago, but he knew that relief wouldn't be coming to him any time soon. It wasn't often that Arthur fell sick, but from his experience, when he did, it was there to stay, to haunt him for a week or more, ghosting around perfectly normal mornings with bouts of dizziness or coughs which never seemed to fade. It was one of the main reasons why Arthur tried his best to keep himself healthy; He was a responsible, grown man, he took his vitamins, ate enough fruits and vegetables, tried his best not to skip meals and slept a vaguely decent amount every night.

However, it had all gone to hell in the past two weeks.

For the past year or so, Arthur had always known, some where deep inside of him, that having Alfred around reduced his productivity. It was a most logical assumption, he'd thought to himself, over nights spent on couches, eating boxes of Chinese takeaway or Thai food, watching pointless movies which somehow were still vaguely enjoyable. With Alfred, he spent less time with work, be it at night, on the weekends, or even at work (all that texting Alfred did must add up _somehow_). It seemed like a reasonable conclusion that without him, Arthur could and would be more productive. But life had settled into a new pattern of normalcy and comfort, and Arthur had admittedly been reluctant to change that, even if it might have meant slightly more work done. He still did what he had to, still managed fairly well, so why change that?

That vague hope of higher productivity had been what held him through the first week or so. However, by the middle of the second week post-Alfred, he'd realized that this was not the case. There were the same few tell-tale signs of sickness that Arthur streneously tried to deny, a persistent headache in the afternoons, a running nose at night. And without Alfred to constantly pester him to have full meals at timely intervals, or to drink enough water or to text him good night to remind him to sleep, Arthur had fallen into a worse pattern than he'd started out with.

Absently, he wondered how he'd ever gotten on without Alfred.

This morning had been the breaking point, when Arthur had pulled himself out of bed at seven thirty in the morning, only to have his legs give out under him after three steps, suddenly consumed with nausea and dizziness. The thermometer had spelled out a clear 38.7 degrees celsius for him, and Arthur had downed a stale piece of bread and two asprins before going back to bed.

Arthur hated being sick. It left him weak and out of control of his own body, and it stopped him from doing what he wanted, needed, to be done. It left him in bed, floating hazily in and out of sleep and wakefullness, too sleepy to really care in the moment, and yet belatedly shocked at the end of it by his own weakness and inability. And this time, he thought, rubbing at his eyes, it would leave far too much time to think.

Not that he hadn't already been doing that, he thought to himself, bitingly. It was a bitter irony that the lack of Alfred made him far more unproductive than he had been with him around, even with all his random texts in the day ("omg artie you have to go check out this link THEY HAVE CATS HANGING OUT FROM THE CEILING") and long cuddle-sessions at night. It was ridiculous, and it did not make any sense, but, as Arthur had come to accept with many things related to Alfred, it just was.

Blindly, he fumbled for his Blackberry on his nightstand beside him.

**Arthur K.:** Not coming to the office today, don't make a mess of things. (7.41am)

Letting the phone drop down beside him, Arthur pulled up the covers and tried to make himself more comfortable. The Blackberry vibrated twice, after a while.

**Gilbert W.: **dont worry, we won't ;) (7.43am)

**Antonio C.:** awwwww! are u ok? :) (7.45am)

Wincing from the bright light of the screen, Arthur squinted and put the phone down again, turning to his side to face it. His fingers closed the message screens of both Gilbert and Antonio, coming back to the home screen. His finger idly hovered over the contacts button.

It was a selfish, irrational thing, he knew, to want to call Alfred over. They weren't even actually _together_ anymore, not after what happened, and yet Arthur could feel himself physically ache for Alfred's warm form curling up behind him, hands rubbing his back and-

His hand had pressed the call button before he even knew it. Arthur swore, albeit hoarsely, finger flicking over to end the call immediately. He tossed his Blackberry to the far end of the bed, covering his eyes with his forearm again, sick with the knowledge that he was becoming utterly pathetic over this whole thing.

* * *

><p>Alfred groaned, fumbling for his iPhone left on the beanbags beside his bed, cracking an eye open to switch the alarm off.<p>

_8.01_, he thought to himself drowsily, _I still have-_

He blinked, trying to focus his eyes on the blue notification box on the lock screen, as he grabbed blindly at his glasses, putting them on, because _god I must be hallucinating from all this thinking or something because it can't be but-_

* * *

><p><strong>Messages<strong> 0. **Missed Calls** 1.

**Arthur K. Missed Call**

* * *

><p><strong>AN:**  
>Oh my god guys, writing for Francis makes me want to cry, seriously. facepalms

B-But anyway. Here we are, at the second last chapter! Thanks again for all your love and support and everything, god, I honestly never thought we'd be getting 30-odd reviews a chapter. /very much awed

Also, doujin stuff! Thank you all for your help with the survey! However, very much regretfully, we're unable to do what the majority of you guys want (which is to print all the chapters, plus the actual comic- I MEAN GUYS, WHAT? WHY WOULD YOU WANT ALL 50K-ISH WORDS OF THIS DAMN THING), so we're trying our best to make it up! If all goes as planned, we'll be publishing an *extra* text epilogue (seperate from the chapter 13 of this story, which will be posted online) *and* the comic in the doujin. I hope you guys understand, yeah? Shipping would be hell if we printed a mini-novel, and Hika and I can't really break the bank printing this. Yes, we will be opening online sales for this doujin, which means international shipping! Please keep checking at our tumblr or Hika's Deviantart (she's Glaceau) for more details, when they get ironed out. Also, check either tumblr or DA for the awesome cover of the doujin too! 8D


	12. Too

**Too...**

Alfred blinked at the message again, squinting at it in the soft light filtering in from his closed curtains. Pushing himself up to a sitting position to resume staring at it, the blue notification box didn't change.

**Arthur K. Missed Call**

His heart jumped at the words, re-read twenty times in the last minute, as he hastily pushed at the unlock button to his phone, and called Arthur, his breath catching somewhere in his throat.

_He called me._

The words echoed about in the spaces between the dial tone, ringing, ringing, without anyone picking up. Alfred bit his lip, and waited on.

Four calls and two texts later (because screw dignity and the possibility of a pocket call, there was a missed call. From Arthur. A missed call from Arthur), Alfred was up, tugging on his dark combat trousers, the closest hoodie to him and his bomber jacket, fumbling around his drawers for paper and a pen.

Matthew, still blanketed by drowsiness, finds a post-it note on the kitchen's counter-top five minutes later, with Alfred's dark, slanted scrawl on it.

_**Going to find Arthur, won't be going to the office today, sorry!  
>-A<strong>_

Matthew smiles, still a little sleepy, and leaves the post-it as goes about making himself coffee, toast, and texting Francis that _maybe _he could come over today after all.

* * *

><p>"-H-HEY NO, WAIT, SIR, YOU CAN'T GO IN THERE!"<p>

Angelique looked up from her game of minesweeper to see whatever had caused the racket. It ran up to her in the form of a tall blond man, bespectacled, cheeks a little flushed from extertion, as it seemed and... Angelique squinted at him, ever so slightly. He seemed familiar.

"Is Arthur here?" He demanded, skipping formalities altogether, coming to a halt in front of her desk, still slightly breathless.

She blinked up at him, surprised. Mr Kirkland hardly ever any visitors, and definitely not ones who came running up, with the receptionist running behind him, and most certainly none as good looking as-

_Oh my god._

"IT'S YOU!" She shrieked, the chair clattering noisily behind her as she stood up suddenly.

The blond took a hasty step back, eyes startled wide in confusion. "Yes it's me...?" He asked, cautious. "Has Arthur told you about me or some-"

"_No_, no," she frowned, "That's not it. Don't you even remember- You-" She looked at him, lost for words. How on earth was she supposed to phrase her thoughts and that abject disappointment and embarrassment which had seeped through her almost a year ago, when she had met him for a date? Or at least, what she had _thought_ was a date. It was embarrassing enough to use an online dating system, but even more so when you got a date with someone you actually did find pretty cute only to- Only to have him tell you it was for a survey and nothing more, after you had flirted with him for an hour.

She'd removed herself from the system right after.

And now he was here, in her work place and... And looking for her boss?

"You're here for Mr Kirkland?" She asked, raising an eyebrow.

He stepped forward a bit, still looking over her warily. "Yes? I just- I just really need to see him, I-I know he's busy and stuff but I mean, I can wait for him if he'll be a while, it's fine yeah? Please? I just really need to-"

"Arthur's not here today," A voice said from behind Angelique. Antonio smiled easily, leaning against his office door, adjacent to Arthur's. "I heard Angelique shouting, and I thought I'd better check it out," he explained, grinning briefly at Angelique.

She shrugged uncomfortably, gesturing towards the blond (truth be told, she couldn't even recall his name anymore; it was the sheer shock and indignance of _him_ being _here_ which had thrown her off). "I'm fine, it's just that he ran in shouting and-"

"-Y-Yeah, look, I'm really sorry about that," Alfred cut in, rubbing at the back of his head apologetically, wincing. "I-I just, it's kinda urgent, y'know? I thought he'd be here, Arthur, I mean, he's always at work and..." He broke off into an awkward, tapering laugh.

"You're Alfred, aren't you?" Antonio was still looking at him, head slightly cocked, his smile bordering on smug.

Alfred laughed, turning to look at Antonio. "Yeah, I am, god, I'm so sorry, you all must've thought I was crazy or something," he stuck a hand out for a handshake. "You're right, I'm Alfred, it's really nice to meet you and all but uh," he laughed a little nervously, "I'd just really like to know where Arthur is right now, is he at a conference or something like that?"

"Nope! He took the day off," Antonio frowned thoughtfully, shaking Alfred's hand. "I think he might be sick, actually, he's been working himself like crazy these few days and- Oh yeah! I'm Antonio, it's nice to meet you too," he grinned. "I've heard- Well, not much really but-"

"Wait!" Alfred cut in, again. "H-He's sick? Like, sick-in-bed-sick?"

"Well yeah, I think-"

"Oh god, that must've been why- Argh." Alfred smacked himself lightly on the face, before rubbing at his eyes. "I- I gotta go, thanks so much- Antonio, yeah? And you um," he looked back at Angelique, smiling apologetically as he walked backwards towards the door. "Hey, have I met you before or something? You look really-"

"Just go," Angelique bit out, exasperated. The two of them watched as Alfred grinned, somewhat sheepish, and turned to run.

"So," mused Antonio, grinning. "That's Alfred."

* * *

><p>Alfred arrived at Arthur's doorstep, panting and flushed, flu medication in one hand and two hamburgers in the other.<p>

Getting to Arthur's house had taken longer than he'd expected.

He'd stopped by a pharmacist on the way to Arthur's house, picking up a box of flu medication. On the way, he'd realized that Arthur was probably sick in bed (what other reason was there for Arthur Kirkland to _skip work_?), and hungry with it. Given Arthur's assumed prone state and inability to cook, Alfred had stopped by a burger stand too, picking up two hamburgers as well.

And now he was here, on Arthur's doorstep. He looked at the brown oak of the door wary and nervous. He knew that he wanted to be here. Arthur was sick, and regardless of what had transpired between them... Alfred still found it necessary to be here, to help him, to nurse him back to health and all that. Something inside him lurched at the thought that followed, that he still _wanted_ to be here for Arthur, to do all that.

_He called you_, he protested against himself, weakly.

His left hand brushed against the bulge the iPhone made in the pocket of his pants.

His right came up to knock at the door.

"Arthur?"

No response.

"Artie? It's um, it's me, Alfred, I-" Alfred bit his lip nervously. _What if he doesn't want me here?_ "-I heard that you were sick and I thought, y'know, I should come over?"

His question hung in the hallway, with nothing but silence as an answer.

Alfred's stomach lurched again. _Maybe I should just go, I mean, maybe he really doesn't want me here and- And it's not like I can really help or but-_

_But he _called me_. That has to mean something right? I mean he-_

_Oh fuck. W-What if he had an accident or something? L-Like he slipped and hit his head and- And he needed help and-_

Alfred cursed under his breath, trying the doorknob to no avail. It's not like he'd expected Arthur to not lock his door but-

_Ah._

Shifting the bags to his other hand, Alfred dug around in the back pocket of his jeans, eventually pulling out a set of keys, grinning. Arthur had called him silly when he first did it, but Alfred had always known that attaching Arthur's spare key to his own set had been a stroke of genius. Granted, he hadn't ever used them till today, and he was pretty sure Arthur only gave him one because Alfred had given him his own, but still, he thought to himself, turning the key.

The lock turned smoothly, and Alfred let himself in. He looked around the living room, half-worried that he'd see Arthur collapsed over any given surface. After a quick sweep of the living room however, the option was ruled out.

_Unless he collapsed in the bathroom or something._

Alfred dumped his stuff onto the couch, and moved towards Arthur's bedroom, door left ajar and-

_Whew._

Arthur was there, lying on the bed, sprawled out a little ungracefully. His left ankle was poking out from under the covers, one arm dangled off the bed, but he was safe, fine - as fine as one could be while sick - and sleeping. Alfred, relieved, sat down as gently as possible on the end of the bed.

Arthur shifted slightly, making a small noise in his throat as he turned a little to his side. Alfred noted that he was drooling, and realised that he probably should not have found it so amusing, especially since Arthur was _sick_, and surely he should be feeling a lot more sympathy than chortle at the fact that _Arthur Kirkland_ _drooled_ (in an absolutely undignified manner too, at that).

He did look pretty sick though - Alfred's mind finally moved on after the vague amusement wore off - and the bags under his eyes were probably ten times worse than when Alfred had complained about them a few months ago and insisted that Arthur kept to a slightly more healthy sleeping schedule. His breathing was laboured, and his brows were together this time, unlike all the other times when they relaxed whilst he napped against Alfred's shoulder on the couch. He was a little thinner too. Alfred couldn't help himself but to frown at that observation, but decided that a hamburger or two would _definitely_ help.

But before that.

He leant over, brushing away Arthur's fringe, grimacing at the tell-tale heat that emmanated from his forehead. Hamburgers would have to wait for now, Alfred stood up resolutely.

* * *

><p>Through the vague fogginess of a feverish mind that was not sleeping but too tired to bother to be awake, Arthur registered the sound of running water. Running water, for two seconds, then a slight drip-drip. Did he forget to turn off the tap? He thought to himself groggily, then realised that he didn't even go to the bathroom just now. How in the world did the tap- or perhaps it was a leaky faucet - but that was less the drip-drop of a leaking tap but more like- more like-<p>

The thought drifted out of his reach, and Arthur let it go, his mind refusing to make the effort to chase after it.

- _Back to sleep. Just sleep and get better for tomorrow- _

A comfortable coolness against his forehead that seemed to soothe the edges of the ragged migraine throbbing under his skull-

"... Mmgh?" Brain registering that something was wrong (but whatever it was, it felt pretty damned good), Arthur opened an eye groggily. Blurry outlines. He squinted, forcing his vision to focus, for the double ghosts of an image to merge together and become a clear-

- _Alfred-? _

His brain trailed off there, and the next moment Arthur had shot up with an alien burst of energy. Something cold and wet hit the blanket, soaking into the fabric of his slacks. "What-" He paused, trying to articulate himself with words that refused to surface from the heavy smog of his headache. "Why-"

"U-uhm- I-I can explain this, really-" Alfred squeaked, before picking up the towel that had fallen off his forehead, "And you should be lying down for god's sake, Artie-"

_Alfred is here? But why would he-_

_Oh. _

Arthur realised, with a sinking feeling in his stomach.

He was _dreaming_. He had conjured up Alfred in a dream because he was so desperate to have him around and-

Arthur groaned, falling back against the pillow, completely disgusted at the emotional weakness that was inherent in the current situation. "... Fucking pathetic-" As if falling prey to sickness and physical weakness wasn't bad enough. Seriously? Two entire weeks of convincing himself that he was fine and it had all come down to this?

_Dreaming_ that Alfred would come?

Arthur would have scoffed, if he didn't feel so inclined to be crying instead. It actually seemed like a feasible thing to do. He _should_ be crying. He was pathetic enough to dream Alfred up in this ridiculously unrealistic fantasy, why _shouldn't_ he be crying?

"A-Artie? Hey." Alfred's hand on the side of his arm. Warm as usual.

"Go away." He managed hoarsely, hating how his voice seemed to crack halfway. "I don't need to be dreaming this now. Bloody hell."

"Dream? Arthur what are you talking about-"

_Oh for christ's sake-_

Arthur sat up, ignoring the fact that his world was spinning and the overwhelming nausea that came over him felt a little too realistic for a dream of this nature. "You! I've just fucking _dreamt_ you up because I'm such a _sod_ and-" Something caught at the back of his throat and Arthur doubled over, choking at either nausea, phlegm or this huge lump of pure bundled _emotion_ and wondering why this dream was so desperately trying to make him look like a complete loser.

There was a pause after that, and the room simply echoed with the sounds of dry hacking. Arthur looked up warily in midcough, wondering if the Alfred Dream was gone for now, and maybe if he could wake up and make himself a cup of warm tea. Instead, he was faced with-_goddamn it all why __was he still here-_-a rather befuddled Alfred Dream who was starting to look like he had _finally _made sense of the situation.

"You're not dreaming, Arthur, I- you called remember?"

Arthur frowned at that. "No I didn't. This is a fucking dream, I never-"

"You left me a missed call." Alfred pulled out his phone. "I thought that-"

Arthur snatched the phone over, fingers clumsily closing around the slim metallic case, staring at the call log with narrowed green eyes. "But I never-" He stopped in mid-sentence, brain buzzing in alarm as it tried very hard, _very hard_ to remember some crucial piece of information.

**Arthur K. 7.46am**  
>Mobile<p>

7:46 AM, the time seemed to taunt him. Two message boxes. Closed them. That same dreaded _one entry_ in his contacts list that he just couldn't tear his eyes from. Alfred. He had pressed the Call button then didn't he?

"No you didn't." Arthur heard himself saying hoarsely. "It shouldn't have- You shouldn't have received-" That's right, this was a dream. All his calls he had canceled before they could even reach Alfred-

"I _shouldn't have_? Shouldn't have what?" But Alfred sounded too real. His voice was breaking, Arthur noted at the back of his mind. He made him upset again. Even in a dream. _Fuck_.

"I-" Arthur bit down on the inside of his cheeks. Should he be admitting to this? But if it was a dream- "All the previous calls never reached you." His mouth said, and Arthur looked up in alarm. "I-I mean-"

Alfred was giving him a rather bewildered look. "All the previous- Arthur, have you been calling me?"

"Well, I-"

"All this time?"

"I-" Arthur spluttered, suddenly aware that Alfred's hands were around his arms again-_warm_-his fingers digging in slightly, and it hurt, and dreams should never feel this realistic-_damn it all to hell_-because what good would it do him if he actually believed that this was real? And wake up to an empty room later, the miserable person he was? "They weren't supposed to reach you- I- I just."

(_- just wanted to talk, and maybe even hear you say-_)

Arthur cursed inwardly, cutting off that thought process there, annoyed that the fever wasn't just affecting him physically but apparently also affecting his control over his thoughts. _This needs to stop._ He told himself firmly, stabbing one more dagger of self-loathing mercilessly into himself-twisted it whilst pressing it in at the hilt-Alfred was _not_ supposed to come back for him. He had no right to even wish for this.

"Arthur," Alfred started.

"I-it was probably the fever." He mumbled, trying very hard to focus on looking at the blankets instead, fingers tangling themselves in the sheets, stretching the fabric over his fingertips. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to- to call you over- I- you should just-"

"_Arthur_."

"Oh for god's sake what is it-" Arthur snapped, only to yelp at the sudden forward tug, his nose crashing not so eloquently against Alfred's shoulder. "Wh-what are you-" He could feel Alfred exhale, chest deflating ever so slightly, and his arms tightening their hold around his back, and Arthur hated himself because he realised that he had missed this feeling _so much_ over the past two weeks the only thing that was stopping him from breaking into sobs was possibly the fact that his head was throbbing incessantly. And for the first time in his life, felt grateful for his fever.

"You should go."

"I-I what?_"_

"To New York."

"What are you talking about-" Arthur tried to shift out of Alfred's grip, but his arms held fast and Arthur's body didn't even bother to keep up with the struggle, too weak to even allow him to raise his head and twist his neck so he could see Alfred's face.

"I-I mean, I know it's important to you and- You should, you know. You should go. I don't want to hold you back and-"

"I'm not going." Arthur found himself saying, before he could even register that his mouth had moved. "I'm not-"

"I'm not going."

He realised that Alfred had lapsed into complete silence, and that those three words now echoed in his room, lingering eerily in the atmosphere.

"Wha-" Alfred spluttered, pulling him away-Arthur felt very much like a rag doll in his hands, grimacing at the painful _throb_ his head gave when his body was jerked back at the sudden movement-"What do you mean you're not- but _why!_"

Arthur closed his eyes, as the throbbing resumed. Alfred was _loud_. "I just- It's not, not because I want- it's just-"

_Not all that simple_, his brain repeated traitorously, just like he had said back that day, in this same bloody room. The same day Alfred had walked out after telling him that all this time, _all this time he had been_-

Arthur had not been entirely keen on leaving for New York in the first place. Alfred, of course, had been his first consideration. He had not wanted-had not even _considered_-to leave him for this, but what other option did he (_they_) have? A long distance relationship? Whilst that, Arthur realised, wouldn't be that bad to him, he didn't really know how Alfred would take to that.

It wasn't just that though. New York was a new place. The company was going to be a new _thing_. He was going to have to go there and piece it together. Do all the negotiations. Find new-_American, god forbid_-employees to work with. Train them properly to do their jobs. Make a new system. Deal with people. Antonio and Gilbert wouldn't be around, how would he know that his new direct subordinates would be equally competent? How would he know that it would work? Everything was a risk, everything was a venture into the unknown- But it was also a new challenge, a new opportunity. And Arthur knew that this would important to him, a new milestone in his life, a new chance to prove himself and reach greater heights. And wasn't that all that mattered to him?

And so perhaps, perhaps he _should_ go. Step out of his comfort zone and take up this new job and _challenge _himself to become better.

But now Arthur wasn't so sure anymore. Alfred had left-And it wasn't just because of this, but because he had been putting up with him for so long, and that he had been tired-And perhaps it wasn't all worth it to go through all that now. Take another risk which outcome he couldn't predict, take another step into an environment that he couldn't control-

_-_Could he even do it?

"I'm not going." He finished, forcefully ending that thought process, hating how the emotions felt so much stronger now that his brain was in a complete mess, that Alfred was _here_ looking at him so utterly confused. "My deadline for an answer is this Monday, and I'm not going." His eyes flickered towards Alfred's face, not really certain what he should make out of the expression on his face now. "I'm sorry." He choked out. "If this bothers you in anyway but I'd just like you to know that I-"

_(I really-)_

"I'm not... Expecting you to do anything about this either. It's my decision, that's all. You don't need to feel obliged to-"

_(But I really-_)

Arthur groaned, rubbing his temples and shaking his head in an attempt to empty that thought out, chase it completely out of the grasp of his mind.

"Arthur-"

"You-" Arthur inhaled shakily. "You should go. Before I pass this on to you. Nasty thing, this flu bug." He laid back down and flung his forearm over his eyes again.

He could still feel Alfred's weight on the bed, a warm presence just at his thigh and Arthur seriously considers murdering the _real _Alfred if this _isn't_ a dream.

"Okay," and Alfred's voice is a touch more hoarse than Arthur can remember, as he rises from the bed. A hand comes to place another cold compress at his forehead, nudging slightly at Arthur's forearm, and Arthur tries to relax into the bed.

He doesn't wait for the footsteps to fade from the room, before drifting back to sleep.

* * *

><p>"Mattie, so what are we having for- Eh?" Alfred stumbled out of his room, only to be met with Francis, and not Matthew in his house. "Francis? What are you-" His eyes were drawn to the brown box Francis had in his hands, filled to the brim with... <em>Matt's books?<em>

"Francis, are you... Stealing Matt's stuff?" He asked, incredulous.

Francis gave him A Look. "No, Alfred, I'm not stealing Matthew's things, I just-"

"Then why are you taking his stuff out by the box?" Asked, his eyebrows raising.

Francis tilted his head at Alfred, considering, before turning around to face Matthew, walking out of his own room. "_Mathieu_, you have not told him?"

Matthew, sheepish and rubbing at the back of his head, smiled apologetically. "No, not really," he admitted, before looking back at Alfred's confused expression. He shrugged, wincing a little. "It just never seemed like the right time."

"The right time to tell me _what_?" Alfred's eyes darted between Matthew and Francis, getting increasingly suspicious. It was that niggling feeling again, the same one that he got in the office that day, when Francis came to talk to him, that idea tugging at the corner of his mind that with this whole thing with Arthur, he'd missed out on something pretty damn huge.

Matthew bit his lip, shifting his weight from foot to foot. "Eh well, you see, Al, I really did want to tell you earlier, but you were so caught up with Arthur and everything so it just never seemed... Right to tell you right then, you know?" He frowned up at Alfred slightly. "I mean, it wouldn't be-"

"What Matthew is trying to say," cut in Francis, putting an arm around Matthew, "Is that he is moving in with me."

Alfred blinked.

"Right now?"

"Actually," Began Matthew, sheepish once more, "I've been... Kinda moving out for weeks."

"_Weeks?_" Alfred craned his head into Matthew's room, considerably less filled with stuff, belatedly shocked.

"Yes, _mon petite_," Francis smiled, semi-condesendingly, but Alfred felt more pity in his tone than anything else. "Matthew's been spending _many_-" he winked, "-Nights at my house and I simply suggested that he move in."

"B-But," Alfred spluttered, scrambling for the words. What should one say in a situation like this anyway? He felt like the rug was being pulled from beneath him, the boat suddenly rocked and all that jazz because _Matthew was moving out and he never told him?_

"Al?" Matt prompted, biting at his fingernail this time. "Y-You aren't mad or anything are you? I-I really did mean to tell you, weeks ago, but the day I decided, I... Well..." He shifted again, frowning at the floor. "I found you in the kitchen," he said simply, knowing that they'd both get it.

"How long have you..." Alfred waved a hand vaguely at the box.

"I've been asking Matthew to come live with me for more than a few weeks now." Alfred watched Francis smile fondly up at Matthew, and that same, matching smile on Matthew and the way Francis had an arm slung over Matt's shoulders, how Matthew's arm was inching up to hook around Francis' waist and-

_Oh._

Alfred swallowed.

"No," he finally said, still staring at the two of them, unable to tear his eyes away because... _Because_. "I-I'm not mad, seriously, Matt, I'm not." He grinned, albeit a little weakly. "I'm really happy for you two," he admitted, honestly, and continued watching the way Matthew's shoulders relax, and the short squeeze that Francis gave at that.

"Thanks," grinned Matthew, blushing slightly, then smiling at Francis out of the corner of his eye as well. "Anyway um, you were gonna ask me something?"

"Nah," Alfred waved a hand dismissively. "'s not important, you guys go do whatever you were doing. Do you need any help?"

Both Francis and Matthew shook their heads. "We'll manage," Matthew smiled, taking the box from Francis. "And we're almost at the last of it, anyway," he admitted.

Alfred nodded, backing away till his back hit the door of his own room again. "Yeah, okay, just..." He watched them for a few seconds more, something imperceptible tugging at the ends of his mind again. Something different yet completely the same on an elementary level, tugging, pulling, _teasing_ at the corners for attention.

"Just take care of my brother, yeah Francis?"

Francis' eyebrows rose for a moment, before his expression settled into one of fondness yet again, as he cast a quick glance at Matthew, still smiling.

"Oh I _will_, Alfred," he purred, voice laden with innuendo and that same inescapable fondness leaking through all the corners.

"Gross," laughed Alfred, as he went back into his room.

* * *

><p>Alfred opened his eyes again from what could've been a moment's worth of shut-eye or an hour's nap. After nabbing some cold dinner from the fridge the night before, Alfred had settled himself down to hours of idle contemplation on his bed, arms tucked behind his head, staring up at the cream ceiling above, counting the cracks between idle thoughts.<p>

He'd been runing the pad of his thumb over his iPhone for the better part of half an hour now, feeling the soft indentation of the Home button, the sweeping curve of the plastic casing, mind flitting between this and that and Arthur Arthur Arthur.

Let it not be said that Alfred never thought things through. He did, he honestly did. Almost always too, in the quiet spaces between songs on his iPod, listening to the soft hum and glow of the microwave. He _did_ think, too much sometimes, driving himself into corners before careening clear off cliffs of thought. Which was what he was feeling right now, holding his warming iPhone in his hand, caressing the blank screen and button and thinking far too much for the past god-knows-how-long.

_I'm a man of action, dammit! _

He pushed himself up into sitting, pointedly ignoring the headrush and flicking through his favourites list to press at Arthur Kirkland before he could lose his nerve to. Again.

Alfred swallowed nervously, listening to the dial tone. The steady, precisely timed tones which slowly drove him to the edge.

Relax, Alfred. It's just a phone call. It's just Arthur. You need this, you need to know, you need to let him know, you-

"... Hello?" The voice on the other end seemed rumpled, sleepy, just with the hint of confused, and so distinctly Arthur, that Alfred had to smile.

"H-Hello? Arthur? Um, how are you?"

"Uh," Arthur paused. "Better I suppose. My fever's gone down so..."

Alfred listened to his trail off, eyes darting around the room. Being a man of action had it's downsides. Like not knowing what to say on the phone to the guy you kinda left after a fight after saying "I love you", after you went back when he was sick and told you that he-

"Well you still sound like shit."

Arthur snorted on the other line. "Thank you, I'm glad you think so too."

Alfred grinned. "So listen, um, are you..." He hesitated again, trying to think of a nice-sounding enough turn of phrase, but finding none. "... Are you sane now?"

"... Excuse me?" Arthur sounded confused as hell if anything, spluttering slightly. "I am always sane, I will have you know! I-"

"Sure, sure," Laughed Alfred, waving his hand about dismissively, forgetting that Arthur couldn't see him. Forcefully, he stilled his hand, setting it back down on his comforter. "But uh, I mean, the last time I talked to you, you didn't seem... Very... There?"

"There? What do you-"

"I mean, when I came over to visit you, you started spluttering on about dreaming and something you shouldn't have done and stuff so uh, it didn't really make much sense to-"

Alfred heard a slap on the other end of the line. "A-Arthur? Are you-"

"Fuck."

"... Art-"

"J-Just... Just shut up for a moment I-" Arthur broke off here, muttering a little inaudibly, with Alfred only being able to catch snippets of what sounded a lot like _fucking fever playing games with my sodding mind_ and _I cannot believe he really- he really-_

"Arthur?" Alfred asked, tentatively. _Maybe he isn't sane yet after all._ "I- I um, just wanted to make sure that you, you know, got what I told you that day."

The pause was longer this time, and Arthur's voice came back at him, wary and cautious. "... What is it?"

Alfred swallowed, nervous. This is what you called him for idiot, it shouldn't be this hard. This is Arthur. It's Arthur, Arthur who falls asleep during action movies and works too much and doesn't initiate hugs but seems to like them all the same and who you love.

"Alfred? Are you-"

"-You should go to New York."

He waited for Arthur's reply, biting his lip, shifting his toes about in the comforter, worrying at the silence. He was never good at phone calls, never liked the way that physicality could never translate into pitch and tone, the way he couldn't feel his way around hand gestures and creases along eyes.

"I'm not going."

Alfred let a woosh of air out. He'd been expecting this, kind of.

"B-But you should!" He said, looking up at the ceiling, counting the cracks again. He'd thought about this, thought about Arthur and New York and him being a whole sea away but how it was something he _knew_ Arthur wanted and _dammit I was never good at following scripts_. "New York food is awesome!" Alfred blurted out.

Silence.

"I-I mean," He quickly supplied. "They have tons of different types, and I bet there's something even you like- There's this thing called blackened chicken, and I mean, it's pretty good, or at least it was, to me, like ten years ago," And he knew he was rambling, but he didn't seem to care anymore. "And New York weather's awesome too, so much more awesome than this drippy London weather we have here and... And- And New York's just really really cool." He concluded, conscious of his semi-pathetic ramble. "You'd love it." _And it's what you want, isn't it?_

Arthur gave a dry chuckle on the other line. "As far as I'm concerned the restaurant food can't taste _too different_, the winters there are equally ridiculous and miserable, and living there alone trying to cope amongst a bloody sea of sodding Americans? No thank you." He snorted, incredulous and ever so slightly bitter that made Alfred want to _do something_. Something, _anything_, put a hand on Arthur's, shift a little closer, place a kiss on his head, something, anything to fight that single strand of sour emotion in Arthur's voice, something that would-

"You won't be alone!"

There was silence on both ends of the line. The words had startled Alfred just as much as they did Arthur.

"W-What...?" Arthur croaked, sounding more distant than ever. "What do you... What... What do you mean?"

"I'll go with you! I'll go with you to New York! I-I mean, I can do my Masters there or something, and Heartstrings doesn't really need me to be here, physically and stuff, I can work, you know, long-distance. A-And we can get an apartment together and I'll show you all the awesome places in NYC and- And you _won't_ be alone!"

Alfred let the words rush out, gabbled together and almost incomprehensible in its speed, consonents tripping over vowels, tumbling together, tied together with pure _feeling_ because Arthur _was_ important, every bit as important as every other part of his life right now. He'd _made_ himself important, with his own slightly-awkward ways, with barely-hidden smiles and falling asleep on Alfred's shoulder and choking on curry _and this is Arthur Kirkland whom I still love-_

_But-_

_Oh fuck I did_ not _just say all that. I- I don't even know if Arthur still wants that- If he still wants me like that or- Fuck, what if he doesn't want that and I- What if he's _never _wanted that and- And oh god I cannot take all that back it's the fucking truth but what if Arthur- We can't just go back to- I-_

The silence that followed was probably the longest in the entire phonecall - which was saying something, Alfred thought worriedly to himself, since this phonecall was probably the epitome of the Awkward Call With Lots of Awkward Pauses - and the only thing that was stopping Alfred's heart from collapsing was the fact that Arthur had _yet_ to put down the phone.

"You-" The word punctuated the silence abruptly, then stopped there, the ends of the sound thinning out and spreading off into nothingness for a moment. Then a rather irritated cough, followed by the noises of Arthur clearing his throat, "You bloody git! What the hell are you thinking- Wait, you probably aren't." Arthur answered that question before Alfred could think about it. A frustrated sigh, another pause, then, "What about your- you can't just- I- I can't-"

Alfred realised that he hadn't been breathing in the past minute, and hurriedly took in the oxygen he needed with one deep inhale, the breath catching in his throat as he waited. Waited for Arthur to say that he couldn't cope with Alfred doing something like this. That they couldn't just go back anymore-

"Just-" A bit of spluttering, as Arthur always did when he was annoyed that he lost his eloquence with words. "G-get your bloody arse over here this moment you insufferable prat!"

* * *

><p>Arthur spent the next ten minutes or so with his head in his hands.<p>

_What the _fuck _did I say that for!_

He groaned, dragging himself out of bed and groggily snatching up the box of flu medicine by the bedside table. Now that he actually thought about it, how in the world did he wake up last night, pick up the box, and down the pills without even questioning how it had appeared?

Arthur cursed under his breath. Material evidence that proved Alfred's (real) physical existence yesterday afternoon that he had overlooked completely in his fog of delirium. He had actually not managed to shake off the sheer embarrassment for his behavior in front of Alfred yesterday. Admitting that he thought he had dreamt him up and that he was a loser? What else did he admit to!

Resisting the urge to facepalm again-he had probably done the loudest facepalm in his entire life over the phone just now-Arthur poured himself a glass of warm water in the kitchen, downed two more pills, and threw a hasty glance at his watch.

The last time he had told Alfred to come down, the git had arrived in thirty minutes. Today, judging by the sounds that followed as Alfred spluttered out "-O-Oh! Yeah! Sure! Now! I'm er, heading over now! So er! Just wait fo- Waaauugh! (_thump_)-Fuck! Stupid beanbag!", he could either count on him being _even earlier_, or just plain late because he walked into a ditch or got into some freak accident.

The slight worry and horror that came with that last thought uncomfortably wedged in his chest, Arthur wondered if he should call Alfred again, tell him to be careful on his way there, and there was no need to rush- But instead splashed his face with cold water at the kitchen sink and proceeded to head back into his room and change into a fresh set of clothes that didn't cling to his skin in that uncomfortable post-fever state.

It wasn't the time for that now. Absolutely not. He had called Alfred over for a reason he himself couldn't comprehend. What was he going to say? He didn't know what to say.

But at the same time he couldn't allow this to happen. Not again. What was Alfred thinking? What happened in those two weeks? Did he accidentally hit his head against something? As far as Arthur was concerned, he had not done anything worth his forgiveness. Didn't even dare call him in case he had already moved on. But also because he knew that, deep down, he was scared that he would have nothing to offer him anymore.

Alfred was important to him. Arthur had managed to come to terms with this new fact and somehow incorporated it-albeit haphazardly-into his new way of living (him not being able to admit to this out loud, not in front of Alfred, or anyone else, was perhaps the main reason for that). Alfred was probably the most important person to him right now, and yet he had still managed to make him talk like that, look like that, _feel_ like that- Arthur realised that he was staring pointedly at that spot where Alfred had been standing That Night, muttering as he forced himself to go back to buttoning up his shirt.

Any confidence-not that he had much to begin with-in trying to rebuild a relationship (or get into a new one) had abandoned him after That Night. If he didn't have anything he could offer to Alfred, then staying in a relationship with him, with Alfred making all the adjustments and sacrifices was ridiculous. In fact, Arthur had convinced himself, he was pretty sure that Alfred _himself_ had enough of it too, and would probably just find himself someone else - someone better, someone who could give him something too, make him happy-

And yet-

_"I'll go with you!"_

_What is he, a masochist?_ Arthur thought to himself in half-ridicule, half... half _something_ he couldn't entirely put his finger on; but it came from that small part of his brain that he had to silence with work, so perhaps he shouldn't probe too much, lest it gave him something that would make him feel even more pathetic than he already did.

He pulled on one of his thicker cardigans - just in case, after all he had just recovered, and catching a cold when your body had just recovered from a bout of fever was ridiculously painful (experiencial knowledge Arthur hoped he never had the chance to learn about) - and resolutely straightened it out. He was going to convince Alfred that he was being silly. Point out everything he could think of that proved that it was a bad idea to go to New York with him. Remind him about what had happened. Between them.

He worked the bitterness out of his chest at that thought. No, it didn't matter what _he_ felt about this situation. He could work it out later, iron out the creases and deal with himself. On the other hand, if he chose to let himself be happy, to go to New York, with Alfred, and that failed- There was no way he could expect the same thing out of Alfred. Not if he was already in New York. Not if he was still with Arthur, dealing with some dysfunctional relationship. He wasn't going to let Alfred drive himself into potential depression out of a whim (that Arthur could _still _not comprehend at the moment - but it was Alfred, so he supposed exceptions to normal logic had to be made) that came with a moment of un-clarity in his head.

Suddenly feeling a lot more comfortable with himself with a new goal set, Arthur exhaled loudly. This was alright. He could do this. The least he could do for Alfred now was to be shamelessly blatant about the facts of their relationship.

The doorbell rang.

Arthur readied himself for battle, and opened the door.

* * *

><p>"So, uhm," Alfred fiddled with one of the cushions on the couch awkwardly, his eyes darting around the living room, "You had something to say?"<p>

_Deja vu,_ Arthur thought to himself idly.

But this time-Arthur swallowed, steeling himself for his first words-_this_ time, he wasn't going to allow himself to be vague, or uncertain. "You're not coming with me. And that's if I'm going. Which I'm not." This was good, he decided, he was coherant, he was calm, he could keep going like that.

"But-!" Alfred started, then he paused for a moment and deflated, "I... I mean, I can understand, if you don't want me around-" Arthur felt his resolve collapse.

"What- No! I-" How could he _think_ that? How could he, when the past few weeks had proven to be so- "It's not _that _you bloody git! Did you even think about what it means to move?"

"Well- I-"

"It's not a bloody holiday! You can't just have fun there for a few weeks! What- what about your friends? Your brother? Do-" Arthur gritted his teeth, frustrated at how even with his determination the words still failed to form, what he had been meaning to say didn't seem to come out right, "Do you want to give up all that?"

_For _me_?_ His brain shouted. The words didn't form.

"I _know_, Artie- I mean, I kinda... Thought about it on the way here and I know it's a big deal and all that but-" Alfred fiddled a bit more with the cushion in his hands, squeezing it and rotating it in intervals. "But I-" He chewed on his lower lip for a moment, the slight flush on his cheeks deepening as he hesitated to open his mouth. "I want to. Do this, I mean. Artie, you're important to me and-"

"But _why!_" Arthur didn't realise he shouted, until the final syllable of the word echoed around the living room. _Then_ he registered that he had shouted, the rawness in his throat and Alfred's blue eyes widened in shock evidence to his outburst. Arthur ducked his head down to stare at the rug beneath his tea table and breathed, or at least, he tried to, the familiar cold fizzing of his panic catching at his fingertips.

"Why do you-" The words caught in his throat for a moment, but it was as if his previous shout had cleared out a passage way, and this time they flowed.

"Why do you always- _Do_ things like this!" Like all those other times. Smiling. Accommodating. Understanding. Trying. "I'm not worth it!" There. He said it. The words that had echoed around all the times he had reached out and stopped, all the times when he had considered just giving in and basking in the happiness that came with being with Alfred. (With being in _love_-) "I'm not- I can't do the things that other people can. I can't- I couldn't tell when you were-"

Arthur wondered if his sickness was actually diarrhoea instead of fever, because now, with his hands clenched on his thighs and his head light and his ears ringing and his vision blurry, he felt like the words being thrown up were due to a bodily need. Verbal diarrhoea, he thought to himself in a sudden state of pure _calmness_ that shouldn't exist when one was throwing up like this.

"-when you were tired and I-" Arthur wheezed, then choked out the last of the poison that had been churning within him for the past two weeks. "-I was _happy_-"

"I was happy too!" Alfred blurted out, cutting Arthur off mid-sentence.

"B-But you..." Arthur stared uncomprehensingly. "You said you were tired! And you were, I don't blame you and-"

"But I was happy too!" Alfred shouted, over Artur's rising tone.

"Happy and tired?" Arthur cried, incredulous. His nose was dribbling in the most unattractive manner and he just couldn't _deal _with this, all this contradiction and paradox that came with Alfred, which he couldn't figure out. "H-How could you be happy and tired all at once?"

"BUT I JUST WAS!" Alfred cried, equally exasperated, twin spots of colour rising on his cheeks in exertion.

"BUT THAT DOESN'T MAKE SENSE," Shouted Arthur, ignoring his scratching throat and dripping nose, because _sod all of that right now_, that wasn't what was important.

"YEAH, WELL, YOUR _MOM _DOESN'T MAKE SENSE!"

Silence.

_What- Did he just- My mother, what...? I-_

Arthur watched Alfred's own stricken face, slowly seeping in the realization of what he'd actually said in that heated moment, before words came tripping out of his mouth ('A-Arthur I- Fuck that didn't- Oh god I'm sorry I don't even-"), rushed and jumbled, falling over each other in that characteristically Alfred way, his face still frozen in shock and rising embarrasment, before he couldn't hold in his laugh any longer.

"A-Arthur- Are you-?"

Arthur slumped over, a hand on Alfred's shoulder, wheezing with the lack of breath that laughing entailed, his loud guffaws echoing about the room.

"Y-You- You _git_, I cannot believe- Pfft _hahahah_- You used a 'your mom' joke in- Alfred- _What_- I don't-" He managed to choke out, inbetween gasps of air and loud chuckles, before Alfred dissolved into similar fits of laughter. They fell back onto the couch, heads cushioned by the soft backing, laughing till their chests hurt with extertion, till their faces pinked with the sheer hilarity of it all, of Alfred breaking into a 'your mom' joke in a situation like that and-

"This is why," Alfred grinned, looking over at Arthur, heads still rested on the back of the couch.

Unable to help himself, Arthur grinned back. "Why what?"

"Why I was happy," Alfred said, still slightly breathless from the minutes of pure laughter, and Arthur found himself similarly winded all of a sudden.

"I mean yeah," Alfred tilted his head back, still smiling, to look up at Arthur's cream white ceiling. "I _was_ tired sometimes, because you're kinda hard to read and all, and you don't always say what you mean- Or at least, what I _think_ you mean. But, I mean, this is the kind of thing which made me that happy, and happiness kinda smothered everything else, usually." He watched Alfred turn back to him, still half-smiling, but there was just something in his eyes which Arthur couldn't quite let go of, something which left him a little more breathless than before, which he couldn't quite put his finger on.

"But that day I was already tired to begin with and all," The smile slipped off his face slightly, and Arthur felt something twinge inside of him at that. "And I hadn't seen you for ages, and that letter I found... So... Everything kinda came crashing down all at once." Alfred's gaze broke off from Arthur's to stare at the middle-distance between them, halfway, before pulling back to his, with such incredible resolve that Arthur hadn't been expecting right then that he almost wanted to pull away.

"But it doesn't change the fact that I still want to be with you."

The words hung in the air between them.

"I-If you'll have me, I mean," And Alfred pinked, and looked away again and all Arthur could think about was how ridiculously redundant that last statement was, because _of course I will have you, you sodding git_.

Arthur found himself staring at Alfred, the rushing flow of fondness and affection and-now in that single, sweeping moment he realised that he could almost admit to this-_love_ refusing to form words. Instead, the warmth in him gushed and churned and whirlpooled, washing words and phrases away from the sentences his brain had just began to piece together. But no, Arthur panicked, he _had to_ say something now. Alfred had said it-like he always had-and now it was his turn, and he couldn't afford to keep Alfred waiting anymore.

He inhaled, trying very hard to ignore the fact that his left nostril was currently blocked, and-slightly worried that Alfred would mind the fact that he was still sniffling, and hoping very hard that there was no more snot on his face-leant in and clumsily threw his arms around Alfred. It was quite a maneuver, and his knee had almost crashed into Alfred's thigh in the process of finding a new pivot point on the couch (_deja vu, again-_), but Arthur found much reason to congratulate himself when he managed to rest his forehead against Alfred's shoulder.

He could feel Alfred stiffen under his arms. "Art-"

"-Of course I'd have you you sodding git-" He felt the air rush out of him along with those words. It felt like he had just emptied his entire bank on some new investment-the silliest thing that Arthur Kirkland would have _never_ done in the past, not over his dead body; and he wouldn't do it, not anytime again, and not if it _wasn't _Alfred F. Jones. Then he noted with alarm that he couldn't really be bothered to worry about his lack of funds at the moment either.

Alfred stopped breathing. "R-really?" And used up the last of his oxygen for that one squeaked-out question.

He didn't bother to wait for a reply, instead letting out a whoop of joy, his arms finding their way around Arthur, warm, squeezing so tightly he nearly choked. "Really!" He repeated, tell-tale happiness leaking out like it always did with Alfred, and Arthur found himself grappling with the _stupid, ridiculous fountain of warm mushy feelings_ in his chest, letting out a half-throaty, half-hoarse choking laugh of relief.

"Yes you bloody git- why would I bother cracking a joke like that-" He _missed_ this, he realised, and as much as the amount of oozing sentimentality in his chest was scaring him so much he was tempted to stomp on it and kill it, surely-_surely_-he could forgive himself for indulging in it today? He laughed again, half aware that it came out sounding more like a sob.

"So-" Alfred's nose nuzzling the side of his head, snorting into his hair. He could almost _feel_ his grin against his temples, "I'd like you to know that I've always wanted to stay in New York." Arthur choked again, still laughing, trying his best not to care about his blurred vision, or the fact that Alfred's hoodie was starting to get slightly soaked up from his tears. (His fist was ready though. If Alfred _dared_ to point this out he would-)

"Well, I guess it can't be helped then," He grinned, almost manically, into Alfred's shoulder, tear glands like a faucet that needed emergency plumbing. "It just happens that they're giving me a rather large apartment there."

"... Man, I'll need to fight Mattie for the Wii. He doesn't really care much about the PS3, but the Wii will be tough." Alfred mused, then chuckled as he eased Arthur's head off his shoulder. "You look ridiculous by the way, Artie. I mean, I've never seen you crying before, but _oof_-" Doubling over in mock pain, the trembles more like controlled giggles, Alfred sniffled slightly, a sheepish "Yeah I know, I look equally funny, you don't need to point it out to me-" thrown Arthur's way before Arthur could open his mouth. Then he leant in and unleashed a shower of sloppy kisses on his forehead in between manly snorts and giggles.

_The germs involved in this exchange_, Arthur thought bemusedly, not really sure if he should be amused at his thoughts in a moment like this, or the fact that they didn't really care if they were slobbering all over each other.

"Artie- Artie-"

"Mmph-" Arthur managed in response, his head dizzy due to the amount of attention Alfred was giving to him at the moment. And really, the small voice in his head complained, he had to do something about that _ridiculous_ nickname-

Then the world tipped over and his head hit the seat of the couch, limbs flying in various directions as he let out a rather undignified squawk. Alfred, somehow still able to move despite the haphazard tangle of limbs, pressing kisses to his jaw, tempting Arthur's brain to shut down and give in to-

"W-wait-" Arthur managed, gasping as his hands found Alfred's shoulders blindly. There was something buzzing annoyingly at the back of his brain, and if Alfred could just let him _think _for a moment- He looked up, still trying to catch his breath, blinking the tears out of his eyes to focus on Alfred's rather dissatisfied pout.

"What?" Alfred puffed out his cheeks, "I'm giving you three seconds to give me a decent reason to-"

"My boss-" Arthur tried to sit up, "T-the bloody deadline is tomorrow, if I don't call him today we can forget about New York."

"Fine." The pout stayed on Alfred's face, but he pushed himself up and helped Arthur up too. Grateful for Alfred's cooperation, Arthur hurriedly grabbed for his blackberry, and wondered just how much of his reputation he had managed to ruin with how he dealt with this one promotion opportunity. A pinch of worry came next - what if his boss no longer wanted him on the job after he had asked for an extension like that?

Arthur licked his lips, thumb hovering over the Call button, and swallowed. Besides, it was _Sunday_, what if his boss was-

"Aaarrtiiiieeee-" Arthur yelped when he felt Alfred's arms snake around his waist from behind. "You're taking too long!" Alfred glared at him from over his shoulder, "And I wanna get back to it." He puffed out his cheeks again and nuzzled at the side of Arthur's neck, mumbling darkly about ruined atmosphers and did Arthur even understand how difficult it was for him to get him in the mood for something like this?

Arthur pressed the Call button, trying to hide his smile, and the embarrassing realisation that _maybe_ it didn't really matter what his boss thought of him for now.

"Hello, sir?"

* * *

><p>Arthur's boss didn't think any less of him, for that matter. In fact, he was incredibly relieved that Arthur took the job.<p>

Alfred lost the Wii to Matthew, who moved into Francis' apartment as planned.

And after Alfred and Arthur spent their last Christmas in London, at a Christmas Party jointly hosted by Matthew and Alfred, they packed up and flew off to New York.

* * *

><p><em>Two weeks later...<em>

"Hey Artie?"

"Hmm?" Arthur hummed a reply, seated cross-legged on the floor of their new apartment. It was the day in which all the boxes finally arrived, which meant un-packing. A lot of unpacking. Towers of boxes were stacked all around their semi-empty living room, in stacks labeled haphazardly with "Arthur's Books(4)", "Alfred's Gaming Consoles (FRAGILE: BE **VERY** CAREFUL)" and "Arthur's Things" (where "teddy bears" had been crossed out and replaced with "things).

Alfred plopped down beside him, back against the cool glass of the sliding door. He toyed with a fraying comic book he had in hand, before putting it down to look up, considerably seriously at Arthur, who raised an eyebrow in surprise.

"What?"

"I just realized that," Alfred paused, taking in a deep breath, and for a second, Arthur wondered if this would be one of _those_ moments. One of those moments where Alfred would say something, and change their lives forever. _Again_.

"That none of this," He waved his hand about vaguely, sweeping past the expanse of boxes and the air between them, "Would've happened if you'd just filled out an extra field in personal particulars form when you signed up for Heartstrings?"

The worry-line between Alfred's brows is almost comical, his face scrunched up in concentration and seriousness, and for once, Arthur is the one who is the first to realize that it isn't that serious at all.

(Because he knows that this isn't one of those moments, because this revalation doesn't change anything.)

Arthur hums his consent, and looks back down to his looped rolls of embroidery thread which had gotten tangled in the trip over. At the indignent sound Alfred made, he looked up again, eyebrow raised.

"That's it?" Alfred cried, arms spread. "After I discovered the one thing-That _one thing!_-Which could have changed it all, the one thing which brought us here today, and- And that's it?"

Arthur looked at him, considering. On one hand, he could see why Alfred was so amused by that detail. It was, he supposed, one of those things which changed his life. It brought Alfred into the picture, made him reconsider his sexuality, opened him up to this whole host of new experiences and feelings which he'd never felt before.

On the other hand, it wasn't important, because it was already in the past; It had already happened.

Arthur smiled lightly, looking at Alfred, the way the evening light seemed to reflect off the cinderblock wall behind them, highlighting the tips of Alfred's hair in vaguely golden light.

"Yes, I suppose. Mostly because, well, it's already happened, hasn't it?" Arthur coughed, and looked back down at the tangle of threads in his hands, cheeks pinking. "And I wouldn't want to change that."

Arthur could see Alfred's legs shift closer, in his peripheral. "Really?" His voice was ridiculously giddy for a such a small admission, but that was just _Alfred_, wasn't it? Arthur thought, exasperated and affectionate all at once.

"Yeah. Of course, I-"

Arthur's eyes caught, as his fingers tangled in a snag, caught at the way the light reflected off the arm of Alfred's gun-metal spectacle frames, that same excited hopefulness in his eye, that curve of his lips, forming a half-smile and-

_Oh._

"I-" He coughed, straightening up, and he could already feel himself blushing a dark pink, but dammit, even if he had to do this in a dusty, new apartment (_their_ dusty, new apartment) in New York, amongst boxes of their old life waiting to be unpacked, with his fingers tangled in threads (which Alfred always had a knack for untangling), he was going to do this right, because it was the overwhelming truth, staring at him in the face and-

"I love you."

* * *

><p><span><strong>AN:**

So we're done.

...

God this feels weird, we honestly can't believe it ourselves.

But still! There's still the epilogue, which should be up in about two weeks or so (sorry for the delay, Cass has exams!), so there's that. But with this, our main plot's complete. Thank you all for reading, favourite-ing, asking for alerts for this, following our tumblr, coming to Livestreams, everything. We're honestly stunned by the response to this fic, till today, and we love every single one of you. For real.

Again, please do check out our Tumblr (link's in our profile, or you can just go to symbiotific . tumblr . com without all the spaces) or Hika's DA for more updates on the doujin, which hopefully will be produced in November. And as an added thank-you for all of your support, we're opening up our tumblr's askbox (sorry, anywhere else is messy, and if we opened it in reviews, you'd still have to go to tumblr to see the things _anyway_) to USUK or Heartstrings-related prompts/requests! We'll try our best to fill as many as possible (either by a doodle by Hika or a drabble by one of us), so please do feel free to drop them there, or to ask any questions or whatever. We'd love to hear from you! 


	13. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

Arthur Kirkland could just _feel_ it this time. He could feel all those points charting themselves onto the paper of their own accord, x and y values materializing with every new morning, each moment which passed which really should mean something more than the basal. He could _feel_ it (once bitten-_Bitten?_-twice shy) creeping up on him, this new pattern which had been drawing itself up in the constellation of uncharted coordinates, waiting for his notice.

He kept staring, determined to have a hand in it (whatever it was) this time.

* * *

><p>"Artie!" Alfred announced that fine morning after they had finally finished unpacking <em>all<em> the boxes, "Let's go visit the neighbours!"

Arthur paused, not exactly sure if he had heard it right. He looked up from the morning newspaper, throwing a confused look at Alfred. "What?"

"The neighbours!" Alfred repeated, pulling himself a seat next to Arthur on their kitchen countertop, "I mean, it's what you're supposed to do when you just move in and stuff right? We could go, I dunno, buy a few cakes from the bakery down the street or something!"

Arthur furrowed his eyebrows. "But I don't-"

Alfred's mouth dropped open. "Don't tell me you _never_ greet your neighbours?"

"W-well," Arthur folded up his newspaper, feeling a little uncomfortable at Alfred's shock. Surely it wasn't _that_ strange. He got along _fine_ with his previous neighbours, to the extent of exchanging polite nods when they met in the corridors or the elevators. "Isn't it troublesome for them to have to deal with strangers at their doorstep suddenly?"

"That's the point of greeting them! To _not_ be strangers, yeah?" Alfred stood up, "I'll go get the cakes."

And that was how Arthur Kirkland found himself standing in front of their immediate neighbour's door on the Saturday morning before work officially started on Monday, shuffling his feet around awkwardly as he held on to the box of cakes Alfred had entrusted to him, still unable to get over how absurd this entire thing was, and what if the neighbours judged them forever as bothersome, meddling people?

"Alfred, maybe-" Arthur started, only to get interrupted by the resonant _ding dong_ of the doorbell that Alfred pressed. Alfred turned around with a wide, happy grin of perfect innocence that at the same time seemed to be asking Arthur what he was going to do about it, now that the bell had already been rung.

Arthur shrunk back grudgingly, and instead focused on wishing that their neighbours were just _not_ in.

The door opened, and Arthur resigned to his fate.

A pair of blue eyes suspiciously peeked up at them through the gap of the door. "Who are you?"

Arthur wondered if he could go "Whoops, wrong house! I beg your pardon, really!" and just leave, but Alfred was faster,

"Hey! We just moved in about a week ago. We're the new neighbours! Thought we'd drop by to say hi."

Arthur watched as the eyes narrowed further, and the door closed by another inch. Of course, he thought to himself, this was utterly suspicious afterall. If two males turned up at his door on a Saturday morning and told him the same thing he would shut the door again and threaten to call the police if they persisted. And even a kid - judging from the height of the silhouette behind the door - could make _that_ judgement.

He looked to Alfred, eyebrows raised in a "I told you this was a bad idea" gesture. But Alfred simply cracked into a wider grin,

"We brought cakes, as a gift."

The door opened.

"Really? Cakes?" Eyes turned immediately to the box in Arthur's hands. Expectant glance.

"Uh." Arthur said. Then awkwardly bent over slightly to hand the box over to the kid.

"Mooooomm! Daaaaddd! We've got guests!"

The two of them were left standing in front of an open door. Arthur took a moment of brain clarity to worry about the poor kid's safety, if a box of cakes could make him leave the door open like that.

Alfred nudged him in the arm with an elbow.

Arthur returned it with a look. "What?"

"Kid's eyebrows kinda look like yours- Ow!"

* * *

><p>Arthur, of all the things he'd been expecting out of their visit to their new neighbours' (Tino and Berwald and Peter) apartment, had not at all anticipated sitting at their very nicely furnished living room, feeling like a <em>parent<em> of all things.

Catching Tino's eye, Arthur smiled as politely as he could, and sipped at his tea.

Tino, he decided, was the safer person to look at, rather than Berwald, who frankly, was just excessively indimidating to look at, and _how on earth does that boy even deal with his glare and-_

"Dad, I'm gonna go get water and stuff for me and Al okay-"

"Peter," Tino frowned, "Don't be rude, call him Mr Jones."

"But _Mooooom_, _he_ said-" Peter whined, and Arthur, not for the first time, noted that Peter called Tino (who was quite obviously male, as far as Arthur could tell) Mom.

"Yeah, it's fine, I told him that he could call me Al," grinned Alfred, setting down the Wii console and turning to face them.

Whatever potential awkwardness Arthur could have feared of their first meeting with the neighbours, was all dispelled the moment the two of them stepped in, and Alfred had sighted the Wii, with Super Mario Galaxy paused on the screen. The two of them were at it moments later, after Peter admitted that he couldn't really get past this stage, and it just so happened that Alfred had, and, well, yes.

He'd only gotten up to grin and say hi to Tino and Berwald after that, both of whom had waved him away to continue the game (well, Tino had, at least, and Berwald didn't seem to say much to that, and Arthur was beginning to pick up on the way things worked here), leaving Arthur to awkwardly smile, introduce himself and Alfred, and hand over the cake.

As the two didn't seem to be letting up on their game any time soon, Tino turned to Arthur, smiling. "It's really nice of you to come by like this- We'd have come over with something earlier, but you two seemed really busy with all the moving, so we'd decided that perhaps we'd come over later. But it seems like you've beaten us to that," Tino laughed, and Arthur found himself relaxing at the sound.

"I-It was Alfred's idea, really," Arthur felt compelled to admit. "He's a lot... Better at this kind of thing than I," He admitted, a little more fondly than he was used to.

Tino smiled, watching Peter, who had come back with two cokes in hand, on the couch watching Alfred manuver his way through the stage. "Are you two...?" Tino asked, cautiously.

It took Arthur a moment to catch on, a blush rising to his face.

"Y-Yes," he finally managed to say. "We're... We're partners, yes." The word was new, foreign, as he felt the weight of the consonents on his tongue. No one had asked, so explicitly, of them just yet, everyone in London had just known, after all they had gone through, that they _had_ to be together. And in the face of their new neighbours, these two men, living together, with a boy... Arthur suddenly found the word a little easier to enunciate, the thought, the notion of them, better for articulation.

The fond, happy smile Tino gave the Arthur just made him blush even harder. "That's really great," he said, casting a look at the two on the couch. Arthur's eyes followed, watching both the gameplay and and the two gamers.

"How old is Peter?" Arthur asked, fingers idly twining around the handle of his mug.

"Seven this year," Tino said, still watching. "Although he doesn't quite act like it, usually."

"Don't worry, mine doesn't act his age either," Arthur found himself saying, and Tino laughed, taking another biscuit off the plate. "So is he your...?" Arthur trailed off, hoping not to pry too much, and yet, he was incredibly curious of this _family_ (there was no other way he could describe them- Peter called them Mom and Dad, for god's sake) he'd come to meet in the last fifteen minutes.

Tino looked up, half-enquiring, before smiling again, and Arthur found himself absently wondering how someone this good-natured could end up with someone as fierce looking as Berwald. (Then again, Arthur thought, a little self-deprecatingly, people could easily wonder the same of himself and Alfred.)

"Y's", the low voice almost startled Arthur, as he turned to Berwald. "H's 'r s'n." Tino half-grinned at Berwald, almost as if sharing a private joke, before looking back at Arthur, one of his hands solidly placed over Berwald's own. "We adopted him when he was five," Tino said, in means of explaination, "Two years after we got married."

Arthur's gaze caught at the plain gold bands on both their hands, one on top of the other, barely glinting in the light of the Ikea fixtures of the room, and he felt the sentence resound in his head a little. __

_Two years after we got married. _Married_._

"That's great," he heard himself saying, looking up at Tino, who was back to watching Peter and Alfred, and Berwald, who was watching Tino, something almost hinting at a smile curling up at the edge of his lip.

"That's really great," Arthur repeated, smiling, the sounds of the boss level starting in the background.

* * *

><p>"Five more minutes..." Alfred groaned, wondering why the hell the sun was in his face, especially when he had chosen the side of the bed that got the <em>least<em> sun-exposure in the mornings.

"You've said that ten minutes ago." His pillow shield was tugged out of his hands the next moment, then smacked _hard_ against his face. "Oh for god's sake wake up, you're going to be late for your first class."

Alfred dragged his upper body upright, and rubbed at the side of his face, his eyes still glued down with sleep. "Why- how do you know when my class is?"

"Your timetable was amongst that mess you left on the dining table." Came the matter-of-fact reply, and Alfred was tempted - _almost _tempted - to make a statement about Arthur trespassing on his privacy, but let it drop out of pure lethargy. "Go wash up," came the next command, and Alfred did a zombie-walk out of bed and into their bathroom.

Many, many years ago, Alfred had laughed when his father told him how his future girlfriend would simply become his new mother after a year or so. Now, as he splashed cold water on his face and gradually woke up, he wondered what he should feel about the fact that Arthur was his _boyfriend_, but became his new mother anyway.

Arthur was finishing the last of his tea, on the last page of the morning paper, by the time Alfred dragged his feet out of the bedroom, dressed in his usual two-piece suit, the ideal portrait of a capable (_boring_) business man.

Albion Publishing had yet to start operations in New York yet, but Arthur had spent the past week interviewing prospective employees and working closely with the headquarters in London to formulate a working system model for their new branch. It was mainly a rather loose schedule for a job, but still Arthur would wake up at the same time everyday, and head over to the company regardless of what time the interviews would be. There were spreadsheets to create - Arthur had told him when he asked why he couldn't just go to the office when the interviews were scheduled - and a lot of documentation to prepare, and why wait for operations to start before writing them up when you had the time to now?

Arthur didn't look up from his paper, and instead waved a hand in the direction of the glass of juice already on the table, and the toast machine atop the kitchen counter. "You probably don't have time for your usual bacon and omelette."

(They had, after Alfred's first disastrous encounter with Arthur's English breakfast, and Arthur's first acquaintance with Alfred's overly greasy American breakfast, come to the consensus that they would make their own breakfasts, and order take-away or eat out. The kitchen was thus only used twice a day, both _only_ for breakfast.)

"Mmm okay. Where's the chocolate sauce?"

"Fridge. I told you that yesterday."

"Ew," Alfred made a face. "It tastes nasty when you refridgerate it."

"And attracts ants when you don't." Came the reply. Arthur folded up the newspaper and set it back down on the table, standing up and straightening his suit jacket as force of habit, even though it was already so straight Alfred swore he could use Arthur's sleeve (or side) as a ruler if he wanted to. "I'll be off first then."

"Coming back late again?" Alfred pressed two squares of toast into the toaster.

"Maybe." Arthur paused at that, then threw a slightly apologetic glance at Alfred. "... I'll do my best to come back for dinner." He coughed, and redirected his gaze to his watch instead. "You have fifteen minutes to eat before you are gloriously late."

"Mm. Okay." Alfred tried to hide the grin that threatened to creep up his lips. It was strange, how even a ridiculously trivial conversation like this could make him feel as if it was _special_, because Arthur had thought about him, and he had bothered to promise the effort to come back for him, and- "I'll see ya later, yea?"

He leant across the countertop that seperated living room from kitchen, and pressed a light kiss on Arthur's forehead.

And he lost to his grin almost immediately because of the speed Arthur's ears coloured (_still_, after this one year together).

* * *

><p><strong>Alfred J.: <strong>im bored ): lecturer's mustache looks like it can hide a family of rats LOL kinda like ur eyebrows (3.13pm)

**Arthur K.:** ... I'm working, Alfred. (3.15pm)

**Alfred J.:** watcha doing? :) (3.16pm)

**Arthur K.:** Business model spreadsheets, referencing data from- You don't actually want to know, do you? (3.21pm)

**Alfred J.:** kinda. not really. lol. aren't you bored? (3.23pm)

**Arthur K.: **... Maybe a little. Been at this for hours. (3.26pm)

The next message Arthur recieves shows the corner of Alfred's notebook, tiers of seats in the background, and a little penciled doodle of a scowling head which had to be Arthur, with disproportionately large eyebrows and a small family of mice trailing out of them.

His short, barked laugh echoed around the empty office, resounding in the open corridor, and Arthur found himself smiling at the small screen, unable to deny the  
>half-baked amusement he could feel bubbling up inside of him.<p>

* * *

><p>There are several nights when Arthur comes home drop-dead tired. He would somehow manage to drag himself home by subway, walk through the door (but remembering to kick his shoes off), before collapsing face first on the couch in the living room. The only thing different about tonight though, was the smell of (what seemed to be) mushroom soup wafting from the kitchen.<p>

Arthur cracked an eye open, mumbling. "Please tell me the faeries came and cooked mushroom soup for us."

He could hear the padding sound of socked feet behind him, and Alfred's face came into view. "No such thing as fairies, old man," he grinned, a hand coming up to tousle Arthur's already-messy hair. Arthur shifted into the touch, minutely, as if shifting away from the pulsing headache.

"But you don't cook dinner," Arthur replied, albeit belatedly, eyes closing again.

Arthur could feel the shift of Alfred shrugging, hand still in his hair. "I wanted to cook today, 's all."

"Didn't you have classes today till late?" Arthur asked, shifting around so his body was in a less awkward position on the couch.

"I thought you said you had my schedule memorized," Alfred teased, sitting on the right arm of the couch, pushing Arthur's legs down.

"I saw it a week ago, Al," Arthur groaned, shifting again to throw his forearm over his eyes. "And today was... Tiring," he admitted. "Very tiring."

There was a pause, and for a second, Arthur wondered why Alfred wasn't replying.

"Yeah," Alfred said, a little softer around the edges than usual. "I know."

Arthur blinked, squinting a little at Alfred in his tiredness. "You knew?" He asked, puzzled. "How? I didn't text you or-"

"You said something about meeting the managerial staff for the first time? Or something like that, right before you left," Alfred supplied. "And well uh, y-you always seemed extra tired after those huge meetings so... Yeah. I thought maybe I could try to cook something? I-I mean, I ended early today, so I kinda had the time to go down and get some stuff for dinner, oh and bread- Y'know, 'cause we ran out the other day and..." Alfred talked on, and Arthur looked at him, watched him ramble on.

His back was aching from the meeting room chairs all day, he hadn't actually had a proper lunch, other than half a sandwich and some tea, and Alfred was just letting him know that he'd noticed what made Arthur tired, and went out of his way to do something for him. I should really stop being so surprised, Arthur thought to himself, a little absently, as he pulled himself up to a sitting position, which stopped Alfred mid-ramble.

Awkwardly pulling Alfred down from the arm of the couch, Arthur let his head rest on Alfred's shoulder, his hand wrapped around Alfred's wrist.

"Thanks, Alfred," Arthur murmured, liking the warmth of Alfred's form after the chilly winds outside.

"Don't mention it," Alfred replied, and Arthur could just feel he grin in his voice. Alfred nudged at Arthur's shouder gently, as his own hand twisted around to grasp Arthur's own. Arthur could feel himself slipping back into a drowsy state, swayed by the way Alfred's thumb was rubbing circles against his inner-wrist. "Wanna go get that soup then?" Arthur nodded, still drained, and let Alfred pull him to the bench-top.

He eyed the bowl in front of him, a little suspiciously.

"You cooked mushroom soup," Arthur noted.

Alfred slid into the seat opposite him, setting down a plate of garlic bread. "No shit, Sherlock," Alfred said, rolling his eyes. "What gave it away?"

"You don't like mushroom soup," Arthur said, sidestepping the jab.

Alfred shrugged, reaching over to open the fridge. "Well, it's alright, I mean, it's not corn soup or anything disgusting and..." He pulled back, dropping his can of Coke onto the wooden bartop. "And you like it, yeah?"

Arthur looked up from his first mouthfull of soup, spoon still in his mouth, watching Alfred's poorly concealed smile, as he fussed around with his can.

"Yeah," Arthur said. "I do. Thanks."

Alfred looked up, grinning this time, as they ate in a comfortable silence, for a period, before Alfred spoke again.

"Also, I kinda got a couple of burgers too, and they're in the microwave, so-"

Arthur snorted. "I'd thought as much."

"Hey!" Alfred protested, waving his spoon at Arthur, sending splattering drops everywhere. "I took the time to make your favourite soup, alright! Appreciate it!"

Arthur laughed, finishing up the last of his bread. "Yes, yes, of course. I'm eternally in your debt, for this single bowl of soup."

Alfred grinned back at him, collecting Arthur's bowl with his own, to dump into the sink.

"Yeap!" He proclaimed. "Which means you have to eat the burgers without complaining!"

Arthur rolled his eyes good-naturedly, knowing that Alfred couldn't possibly see him do it. "Of course," he drawled, and pretended that he wasn't smiling.

* * *

><p>Sometimes they would fight. Over the smallest, most random of things. Arthur never remembered how they would start quarreling, but took an intelligent and educated guess that it <em>had <em>to be a small, random thing for him to _never_ remember it.

They were at it again, today, the same way any two people who lived together would go at it every now and then. It was a Saturday morning, they had both been looking forward to spending a weekend together, and Arthur could not understand why they had ended up shouting at each other across the living room.

Alfred was still out in the living room, the stereo system blasting sounds of some game that sounded vaguely violent, and Arthur sought salvation in the study room, not really reading the book he had in his hands, trying to pretend that he was _not_ brooding because it would be silly if he was.

Besides, he frowned slightly at the thought, it was rather underhand of Alfred to bring up something like his own persistence at being emotionally superior and holding to the belief that he was always right. (He _was_ always right, after all, when it came to looking at the situation as objectively as possible - Alfred _never_ made enough sense, and surely it wasn't his fault for pointing that out?)

Irked at the prospect of their ruined weekend ahead, Arthur flipped to the next page of his book, ignoring pointedly the fact that he had barely absorbed anything from the previous page.

Perhaps he should do something about this. There were still many hours of Saturday left. The morning had been wasted. But they still had the afternoon, and the evening, and nighttime, and there was this restaurant his new secretary had been talking about in the office all day (he had to personally walk over to her desk and glare at her to get the point that lunch break was over, and ask her as politely as he could, if she could please kindly go back to finishing those documents he had asked for?) that apparently had the most _wicked_ desserts of the overly sugar-orientated variety that he knew Alfred would appreciate-

But. The word lodged in the back of his head. Even if he agreed to concede and take a step back and admit that _he _was in the wrong, the after-silence of a bad argument was the last thing he wanted to deal with.

Frustrated, Arthur flipped to the next page of his book, tapping the ground insistently with his toes.

Well, fuck it all.

He set the book down on his armchair, and made his way resolutely to the living room to give Alfred a piece of his mind-

"OW!"

"Gah-"

- Only to crash into him at the door to the study.

"What the fuck-"

"Watch where you're going Artie!"

"You should've knocked before you came in!"

"The door was open!"

"You can still knock on it can't you!"

"Well, if you actually bothered to _look _it wouldn't have happened! Geesh Artie! You're already so old, what if you fell and hit something-"

"I beg your pardon!"

"No need to beg me, I know I'm awesome." Alfred preened, before pausing for a moment, his lips twitching upwards. Arthur watched, surprised that his own lips seemed to be tugged at by some strange, alien magnetic force. Then Alfred cracked up. "Oh god I don't believe we could even argue about that-"

"You complained about how I _folded_ your socks just now, I believe that was more absurd than this argument."

"Well you brought up my tummy! My tummy's out of bounds!"

"So you admit that you have a tu- Gah! _Gaaah_! Gerroff you idiot! Don't- What are you- ha- _Pfff-hahaha_- Fuck you! Tickling is breaking the- haah-"

* * *

><p>"-So yeah, that's about it," Alfred concluded, twirling the wire of his headpiece with his free hand, as he grinned at the image of Matthew on his Macbook. "Other than that, not much's been going on around here, I guess."<p>

Alfred had, in a strangely detatched way, anticipated missing Matthew. In the midst of the flurry of pure busyness of moving, he'd thought about it at length. They hadn't spent all of their childhood together, exactly, but in Alfred's eyes, nine-plus-eight years was a damn long time to get used to having a brother; living with him, eating his chips and letting him steal your hoodies from time to time. He hadn't put a lot of thought into it then, but _now_, an entire sea and a few timezones away, he'd missed Matthew. Arthur was Arthur, awesome and fantastic (and Alfred was still continually thrilled by the fact that they were living together now), but Matthew was... _Matt_.

Matt who hadn't told him about moving out until the days before he actually did.

Alfred didn't like thinking about it too much. It unsettled him, somewhere around his gut, that Matt, his _twin brother_, had kept something as huge as _moving out with Francis_ away from him. Another part of him accepted it though, however slowly. As much as they acted like it from time to time, Alfred knew that he and Matt were no longer eight and swearing against having anchovies on pizzas _ever_. Going to college and starting up Heartstrings together had solidified that, filled in the gap of eight years of absence. They were adults now, twenty-six years of it, and Alfred knew that it was quite silly for him to be so sentimental about Matt.

"Al?" Matt's voice came over the earpiece, before the internet-lag showd him squinting at the screen. "You still there?"

"Huh? Oh, yeah, yeah I am, sorry."

"Oh." Matthew seemed to pause, leaning back again. "Right, yeah, I just thought- You weren't moving for a bit so I thought the camera froze or something." Another pause. "Hey Al?"

"Hm?"Alfred was flicking through the tabs on Safari then, between articles about the newly ranked games on IGN and the uploaded slides from his lecture earlier that week. "'Sup?"

"Can I um, ask you something?"

Alfred switched back to the Skype screen. Matt usually skipped the pleasantries with him, cutting to the wick, regardless of how polite he was around most others. "Yeah," he said, wondering what was wrong. Matt looked fine, as far as he could tell, if not a little bit tense. "Shoot."

He watched Matthew look down a little, idly toying at the sleeves of his oversized hoodie, the sound of rain sounding off lightling from Matthew's side. "Matt?"

"It's about me moving in with Francis."

Alfred felt himself tense up. "What happened?" He demanded, fingers tightening in the wound cord. "What- Did something-"

Alfred watched the line of Matthew's brows furrowing momentarily, before he came to wave his hands about, a little startled. "N-No! No, Al, we're fine, we really are." He caught the grin which pulled at Matt's face, as Matthew looked over the computer momentarily, before looking back.

"It's about um-" Alfred could only hear the woosh of Matthew's breath as it carried with his mumbled words, over the connection.

"... What? Matt, I can't hear you, your mic- What did you say!"

"Are you mad about me not telling you that I was moving in with Francis?" And there it was, in startling clarity for an internet connection, and Alfred was reminded of how he and Matt once thought they had this whole twin-pathy thing going on.

He hesitated.

"Al," said Matthew, "It's okay if you are, Really. Um, I mean..." Matthew ran a hand through his hair, frowning down at his keyboard. "It's my fault. This-" Alfred could hear Matthew sigh, frustrated. "I know it is a big thing, and I should have told you but then you were so wrecked by that thing with Arthur that it never seemed-"

"Matt."

Matthew stopped talking.

"It's fine," Alfred said, honestly.

He watched Matthew look up from the keyboard to squint at the screen a little. "... Really?"

"Yeah, I mean..." Alfred shrugged, scratching idly at the back of his neck. "I understand why you didn't tell me and stuff, so it's cool, really, Matt. I mean, yeah, I kinda do wish you talked to me about it earlier, like when you were considering it or something, but it's... It's okay." Alfred grinned a little lopsidedl. "And you kinda gave me a shove in the right direction too."

"Huh?"

"That... Thing," Alfred gestured abstractly, "You had with Francis. You know. The idea that you were moving in with him. It made me think a little more about Arthur, y'know? The idea of moving out and maybe living with him, coming home everyday to him and-" Alfred coughed, a little embarrased, because jeez since when have I become this touchy-feely? "You get it, yeah?"

Matthew grinned, on the other side of the world. "Yeah."

"So how are you and Francis anyway?" Alfred wrinkled his nose. "No... Details, please."

Matthew snorted, eyes still looking a little over the lens of the camera, smirking. "Actually-"

At that moment, the door to Alfred's apartment opened, revealing a slightly windblown Arthur, hair sticking up more than usual, and a small parcel in his arms.

"Artie!" Alfred cried, grinning, before looking back at the screen. "Hey, Matt, Arthur's home so I'll just be a sec- Arthur, come say hi to Mattie, I'm Skyping with him!"

Arthur, squinting at the small address print of the box, grunted in reply.

"Print too small for you, old man?" Alfred teased, removing his earpiece and coming around the table to give Arthur a quick kiss to the cheek.

"Sod off," Arthur bit out, still frowning at the package intensely, before chucking it at Alfred. "Fine, you open it!"

Alfred laughed, reading off the sender's label. "It's from your aunts!"

Arthur blinked, surprised, arms half-way through removing his coat. "My aunts?"

"Yeah, you know, Aunt Rose, Aunt Violet and Aunt-"

"I know who my aunts are, Alfred," said Arthur drily, as he came back to the table where Alfred was tearing open the duct tape. "I just- They didn't say there were sending anything."

Alfred hummed a reply, peeling off the last of the tape haphazardly. Notice or not, mail and packages were always a welcome surprise.

"Oooh, they sent us scarves!" Alfred grinned happily, pulling a set out of the box, one red and blue, the other green and white, in the same pattern.

Arthur clicked his tongue, examining the needlework, which was of course, excellent. "They really didn't need to," he mumbled, turning the scarf around in his hands. "And it's almost Spring already anyway they-"

"Aww, mittens too!" Crowed Alfred, pulling them on. "And a letter!" Alfred tore open the envelope, eyes scanning the loopy cursive. "Huh... Let's see... 'Hello Arthur, Alfred, hope you're doing well...', 'the mittens and scarves in the box'... Huh. 'Use them wisely'? Artie, what did they think we could do with scarves and-"

"FUCKING HELL!" Alfred looked up just in time to see Arthur drop the box, his face bright red. "W-WHAT THE FUCK WERE THEY THINKING-"

"W-Wha- Arthur? What was inside?" Alfred, startled went to collect the box from the floor, pulling it upright, only to have a few small foil packets fall out from the open flaps. "Eh? What are-" Alfred examined one, frowning, ignoring Arthur's splutters behind him.

"... Condoms?"

Chortles came from Alfred's Macbook, still sitting open on the table, forgotten in the interest of the mail. "Oho, Arthur," and Alfred could just hear the slick perversion in Francis' voice ooze out from the speakers, aside Matt's giggles. "Did your Aunts think that you didn't know how to buy condoms for yourself? God knows why they thought you would need them in the first place, honestly, but-"

Francis' voice was cut off by Arthur slamming the Macbook shut with a loud crack.

"HEY!" Alfred cried, dropping the box and condoms to rush over to check for damages. "Artie, that is _so_ not how you're supposed to-"

"Oh belt up!" Arthur shouted, still flushed to the collar, irritatibly flicking one of the packets away from him, which Alfred caught, still half-sulking and caressing the cover of his Macbook. There was a pause.

"Arthur?" Alfred began tentatively.

"What?"

Alfred coughed, toying with the packet. "Do you uh, wanna... Use the condoms?" He said, half-awkward phrasing and half-puppy eyes.

"W-Wha- ALFRED!"

"_Whaaaaat_? I mean! The condoms are already here, and I mean, why waste them right?"

"B-BUT THEY'RE- THEY'RE SENT BY- AND- Oh _fine_ just shut up and- STOP LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT ALFRED."

Appeased, Alfred grinned and pulled a still-spluttering Arthur into the bedroom, Macbook happily forgotten.

* * *

><p>Flexing his hand from holding the DS stylus, Alfred watched Arthur, browsing the Internet for information, laptop on Alfred's thighs, sprawled across his lap.<p>

"Arthur?"

"Mm?"

"What're you doing?"

"Work."

"Huh." Alfred watching him, as Arthur stared at the screen intently. "What kind of work?"

"Internet," mumbled Arthur distractedly. "Market research."

Alfred made a sound of assent, momentarily distracted from his 3DS. _Internet, eh_. He grinned.

"The internet is for porn~" Alfred began to sing, grinning at Arthur's expression when he turned to him, incredulous. "The internet is for _pooorn_~ Why do you think the net was-"

"Alfred!" Arthur groaned, half-amused, half-annoyed.

"PORN, PORN, PORN!" Alfred bellowed, laughing and grinning for all he was worth, swinging his legs off Arthur's lap (leaving Arthur to grab at his laptop, cursing), before suddenly stopping short. He folded his legs beneath him, pulling at Arthur's shoulders to twist the other man to face him full-front, expression schooled and serious.

"Arthur," Alfred began. Arthur raised an incredulous eyebrow, "Yes, Alfred?" He asked, drily.

"Arthur," said Alfred seriously, staring at Arthur straight in the eye. "I just wanted to let you know that..."

"... Yes?"

"IF YOU WERE GAY," Alfred sung, with gusto, grinning for all he was once again, "THAT'D BE OKAY!"

Arthur burst out laughing, skeptical looks be damned, as Alfred came to stand on the couch, arms spread like he was singing in a music video or something equally ridiculous. "I MEAN CAUSE HEEEEEY, I'D LIKE YOU," he pointed down to Arthur, one hand on his hip in a ridiculous show-girl position, "ANYWAY."

"A-Alfred-" choked out Arthur, laughing.

"BECAUSE YOU SEE, IF IT WERE ME-"

"Alfred, get off the-"

"I WOULD FEEL FREE TO SAY THAT I WAS GAY- BUT I'M NOT GAY!" He finished, jumping off the couch (only wobbling the slightest bit), taking a deep bow.

Arthur couldn't stop grinning. "But you are," he pointed out.

Alfred let himself drop back onto the couch, limbs sprawled out, and one arm over Arthur's shaking shoulders, quaking from laughter.

"Totally not the point, Artie," he mock-chided, kissing Arthur's cheek.

* * *

><p>Alfred wasn't sure why or how or even exactly when it happened. It all seemed like it'd be important a while down the road, when he would want to pin this thought to the cork-board of his mind, framed and straightened because it <em>mattered<em> to him. He wanted every detail, he realized belatedly, written down like a crime scene report so that he could file it away as _evidence_ - solid, hard proof that Arthur Kirkland held his hand voluntarily on an open street, one rainy day when they were stuck under an awning on a busy New York road, with another three people squished under the same small space.

But he couldn't.

There was no Time Of Death or Possible Motives For Crime, only the haphazardly wet splatter of rain like an afterthought on the back of his head, and Arthur's fingers tangled around his, palm warm and flush and so _there_. And Alfred stopped in mid-whine about the shitty timing of the rain and _why the hell couldn't it have waited another two blocks till when they reached the GameStop?_

All brain functions froze temporarily._  
><em>  
>The first thing it did on reboot was to try to search for a possible explanation, something that would make sense for this to happen, in the Arthur Kirkland model. Arthur always made sense (or so he liked to insist), and never ever did things on a casual whim, or based off a simple gut feeling. "Just because" was an Alfred kind of thing, never Arthur, who was always ready with an entire speech to justify his methods and actions. And yet today, here, this moment, with his fingers tucked in the gaps between Arthur's, Alfred realised that if he asked, Arthur might not have an answer for him. Gut feeling. Just because.<p>

Alfred tugged on Arthur's hand, a brief pull between them, and Arthur had turned his head slightly to the right, eyes darting over to look at Alfred, completely composed except for the very slight pink in his cheeks.

"What?" He had mumbled, looking back at the sidewalk in front of them after a moment of silence, watching the busy pedestrians who had the presence of mind to bring a damn umbrella on their person. His hand stayed where it was. And Alfred had to bite down on his lip and try not to smile too hard or to do anything too embarrassing or startling like throw his arms around Arthur in a hug or anything else that might just ruin this moment of pure anti-logic.

Instead, he looked away, making a poor attempt at schooling his expression to watch the same pedestrians. "Nothing," he said, unable to resist giving Arthur's hand a quick squeeze. Still confused but more than a lot happy, and hey, even if he had to tolerate being confused by Arthur's leaps and bounds in affection and thought, the rewards were still damnably good.

* * *

><p><em>Arthur<em> wasn't confused.

He had tracked the points; the tell-tale signs of action and result, the little things that were suddenly bloody obvious on hindsight, and he'd finally done it, regardless of how warm his cheeks felt.

The people around them continued to walk by, the sky didn't fall down, Alfred's fingers were warm and very much the same fingers he had threaded his own through all those times - but never outside, never in the crowd, never amongst others like this - and the rain would stop very soon

It all felt pretty damn good.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:**

So NOW Heartstrings is legit complete.

... Oh god hang on we're having a mini existential-crisis here at finishing this damn thing. brb.

Okay I think we're okay now. So. What's there to say? We honestly don't know. Thank you all for reading, and following this huge fic. We love you all. Seriously. From here, our only other current project would be Default, our collection of AUs, and the Heartstrings doujin. We'll keep you updated on that, so please check our Tumblr (link's in our profile). Hika and I still have lots planned for this universe (we're seriously very attached to it like you would not believe), so we'll be doing a seperate story to put in all our side-stories and everything, and maybe even what happens to Alfred and Arthur after the events in this arc, and the doujin epilogue. So please maybe check back soon? Or add us to your author alert or something.

Right. So. That's about it. Thank you all again, we hope you've enjoyed this.

... Okay going back to existential-crisis mode. 


	14. Christmas Bonus

**How Alfred Got His 3DS for Christmas**

Arthur stopped right outside the glass doors, swallowing apprehensively. He didn't have a good feeling about this.

_At all._

But the winter winds of New York were cold, and even if it wasn't half as wet as it had been in London, the wind chills had a way of cutting right through you, and it gave Arthur the necessary push into the store.

_Gamestop_, he thought to himself, with the tinge of disgusted loathing usually reserved for vermin and petty thieves.

The festively-decorated shop with a seemingly infinite number of game cases displayed on shelves glared down at him, and Arthur felt himself bristle, standing up straighter. Don't be ridiculous. You're Arthur Kirkland, Branch Manager of Albion Publishing in New York. He swallowed, eyes darting from one game case to the other, frowning.

_You can do this._

"Hi!" A young looking girl with Gamestop lanyard around her neck grinned at him. "Can I help you?"

"I- Er-" Arthur was momentarily thrown off-guard. In his mind, he'd just go into the damn shop, wander around for long enough to get irritated, and finally pluck a random game off the shelf just to be done with it. Alfred probably had the machine (console?) to play whatever it was anyway. He hadn't counted on trying-to-be-helpful shop assistants. "Er," he coughed out, still fumbling.

She laughed, holding up her hands in the universally accepted I'm-innocent gesture. "Relax, no pressure! You can just browse, of course. If you need any help, just ask, yeah?"

Arthur nodded, slightly jerkily, hating himself for it. He had been in this kind of store for long enough to know that he didn't hate the store, exactly. He just felt constantly thrown off, not knowing anything at all, and Arthur hated_ that feeling_. He turned back to the confusing display of game cases, frowning slightly at the covers.

"Are you looking for a present?" the assistant asked again, warily friendly this time.

"Er," Arthur coughed, glancing at her, before turning back to the shelves. "Yes, I am."

"Ah okay!" Her voice perked up. "What kind of game are you looking for? For what console too."

Arthur turned to her, eyebrows bunched up in confusion. "Con... Sole...?"

"Yeah! Like uh, PS3 maybe? Xbox? Wii? Or maybe a handheld console?" she asked, waving her hand at the racks behind the counter, with boxes of PSPs stacked high. "Nintendo DS?"

Arthur felt his brain freeze. _Come on_, he shouted at himself mentally. _You know this!_ And he _did_. Alfred had talked about his gaming enough for Arthur to at least have heard of the names the sales assistant had rattled off. As much as Alfred constantly accused him of "spacing out" when he had been talking about his games, Arthur had tried his best to pay attention. Now, the problem was that _all_the names sounded equally familiar.

He had no idea which ones Alfred had.

"Err," Arthur frowned down at the boxes on the lower shelves, stocked with game consoles which suddenly all looked alarmingly alike. "I-I... It has a black controller...?"

The girl laughed a little, scratching at the back of her head, tugging at her ponytail. "Most controllers have black versions, but um, maybe... Hang on a sec yeah?" She disappeared around the shelf, returning with a plastic-wrapped black controller. "Is this it?" She asked.

Arthur bit his lip, eyeing the thing. _The joysticks look familiar... I think?_

"I... Think so?" Arthur sighed, scratching idly at his neck. "I'm... I'm not too sure really," he confessed. "He has a few of them... Two I think? The ah, the kind that you play with on the television." He gestured with his hand absently, waving at the boxed consoles. "He has two um, handheld ones too? One's... Longer? Black, with a larger screen and there's a P somewhere in it's name-"

"PSP?"

"Yes!" Arthur smiled, remembering the way Alfred's voice sounded around the acronym, his American accent revitalized after coming to New York. "PSP, _yes_, I think that's it. And this other one with two screens, and I think one of them's a touch-screen? Or something? He uses a stylus with it, I think and- And _god_, he keeps losing it _everywhere_." Arthur mutters, before the sales assistant's laughter reminds him of who he's complaining to exactly.

"That'll be the NDS," she smiles, rocking back on her heels. "So you'll be looking for new games for those then? That shouldn't be too hard. If you'll please follow me?"

Arthur nodded absently at the back of her head. Truthfully, other than games, he had no idea what he could get Alfred. Being two perfectly self-sufficient grown men, they fed their own habits and hobbies. Arthur hadn't been too keen on the idea of buying Alfred clothes (not when Alfred consistently called whatever Arthur was wearing old-man-like and stodgy, regardless of how much he'd laugh about how he still loved Arthur for it), and Alfred didn't wear watches, so that was out as well. Games seemed like the logical option.

"Right! This is the NDS section." The girl stops in front of a double-lined case of games which, to Arthur, look just like every other shelf, and suddenly, Arthur felt a strong surge of gratitude for her help. "So here we have the best sellers, like um, this one for instance, is really popular, especially with..."

Arthur let her talk on about the varying popularity and strengths of games, as he scanned the colourful covers, trying to remember if he had ever seen any of them around the apartment. It was a feeble attempt, till his eyes caught on a larger box on the top shelf, a shiny-looking console depicted on it's front. _New_, the red stickers on its shelf shout.

"Er, sorry, but what's that?" He asks, pointing up at the box.

She stops, in mid-breath, looking up at the shelf Arthur is pointing at. "Oh! That's the new Nintendo console, the 3DS." She jumps a little, pulling the box down from the higher shelf, passing it to Arthur, smiling. "It's pretty new, came out this March. It's pretty cool, I think. The most unique thing about it is that it has a 3D mode, which works without glasses, so it's a whole new dimension of gaming, really and..."

_"Arthur! Artie! You have to see this!" Alfred had thrust his iPad into Arthur's face, pushing away the knitting that he had been doing._

_"Don't do that," Arthur said on reflex, as he squinted at the screen, which showed a... Gaming device of sorts? "What is it?" Arthur had frowned._

The rest is, admittedly, foggy to say the least, but Arthur remembers talk of a "new and improved" gaming platform, or something of the sort, and something that had to do with 3D graphics. Also something about how the launch price was ridiculously expensive and god perhaps he should just wait till it became more affordable-

Arthur turned the box over in his hands. I guess this is it then, he thought, looking up at the girl.

"I'll ah, take one of these, please."

"Sure!" She chirped, tossing the empty box back onto the shelf, as she lead him back to the counter. "What colour would you like? We only have black, blue and pink in stock though."

"... Black?" Arthur says, and it's more of a question than anything, the image of Alfred's black PSP at the back of his mind.

"Mhm!" She hummed, "give me a second, I'll just go get it for you." And as she left for the storeroom, Arthur felt himself slump a little against the counter, a little drained. At least that's the end of it, he thought to himself, opening his briefcase for his wallet.

"Here you go!" She smiled, pushing the box at Arthur. "Would you like to check the console? Or maybe buy additional games for it?"

Arthur felt his head ache a little more at the thought. "N-No, no, that's fine, I'll just pay for that."

The girl seemed to understand, and gave him the bill without another comment. As she packed the box into a bag, Arthur was distracted, fiddling with his chiming Blackberry.

**Alfred J.:** buy macs k? this tut class sux (6.20pm)

He felt himself smile, as he tucked the phone away again, watching the sales assistant finish up. She glanced up at him, catching his half-smile, and grinned back.

"Present for your son?" And Arthur wanted to die a little, right there, as he felt himself go red, mumbling some variant of "no, not really", before practically running out of the shop with Alfred's Christmas present.

_Fuck my life_, he thought, half not meaning it at all, as he rounded a corner to the MacDonalds near their block.

_Arthur and Alfred's first Christmas in New York together. This was meant to be Hika's Christmas present!fic, and she wants it to be put up so... So it shall be! Happy holidays!_


End file.
